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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 



TIME 

THE COMEDIAN 


BY 

KATE JORDAN 

AUTHOR OF 

“A CIRCLE IN THE SAND” 



D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
NEW YORK 
1905 


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* BFARY of INGRESS 1 
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Copyright, 1905, by 
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 


Published September, 1905 


TO 

MY SISTER MARTHA 



TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


CHAPTER I 

It was one of Nora Dakon’s bad days. She 
sat by the disordered breakfast-table in a mus- 
lin dressing- jacket and petticoat, pressed her 
knuckles into her cheek, and wrote with her 
fork on the table-cloth over and over again, 
“ Bate’s Crossing.” 

Hannah appeared in the doorway. She was 
hard-featured, strong as a dray-horse, with 
big-boned hands outspread on her hips. 

“ The man is here for the meat order, m’m,” 
she said. 

“ Oh, yes,” Mrs. Dakon drawled, and still 
scrawled “ Bate’s Crossing ” on the cloth; “ I 
don’t know what to get.” 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


“A fricassee of chicken with dumplings? 
Mr. Dakon likes that.” 

“ That’s as good as anything.” 

“ Shall I have the tomatoes stewed, or cut 
up raw? ” 

“ Why — well — ” she said, without looking 
up, 4 4 just as you like.” 

“ Stewed with bread-crusts? ” 

44 Yes — yes — stewed, then, Hannah,” and 
she flung the fork from her nervously. 

44 1 haven’t no saleratus.” 

Nora closed her eyes and sprang up. 

44 Get it, then. Get what you need — any- 
thing — anything. Don’t ask me again. I am 
going up to lie down.” 

4 'Ain’t you well? You look like fever. It’s 
the spring. Shall I put a little lime-water in 
Miss Ruth’s milk for her dinner? I think she’s 
bilious.” 

44 Yes.” 

Mrs. Dakon rushed up-stairs. In her own 
room she pressed her fists to her temples. 

44 Oh, it’s killing me! This place is killing 
2 


TIME , TH# COMEDIAN 


me! I’ll go mad — I know I will. I can’t — I 
can’t — I can’t ” 

She broke into passionate sobbing and went 
to the window. The May day was lovely. 
Bird life stirred in the wistaria around the 
window. A lamb bleated from a neighbor’s 
pasture. The village street was sunk in sun- 
shiny coma. Nora looked at these things and 
hated them all. She drew in the green blinds 
till the room was as cool and dim as a cave. 
Her hands shook as she took otf her clothes 
and slipped on a nightgown of tender-colored 
dimity, smelling of orris. When she had flung 
some branches of lilac on the bed, she followed 
them, burying her face in the blossoms, her 
hair making a pale-gold net over them. 

In this manner she frequently salved her 
ailment, which was of the mind. Hour after 
hour she would lie in the shadow and quiet, 
hating her life, longing for what it lacked. 
The craving was a banal thing made up of 
small, unsatisfied appetites, and they tortured 
her now. 


8 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


She was poor, and she required money as 
a flower requires water. She lived in Bate’s 
Crossing in a ten-roomed cottage on a prim 
street, and she longed for an apartment in 
New York, reached by a smart lift. She was 
beautiful, and carried her twenty-eight years 
as if they were eighteen, but her beauty was 
a possession as useless as her one bauble, a rare 
amethyst comb that had been her grand- 
mother’s, and which she never wore. There 
was no achievement in being anything or hav- 
ing anything in Bate’s Crossing. 

“ Eight years of it!” she said aloud, as 
she lay there, clutching the lilacs. “ Eight 
years of Bate’s Crossing! This is eighteen 
hundred and ninety, and, I dare say, the new 
century will find me groveling here.” 

She thought of the first year of her mar- 
riage. It was to her life what a jewel would 
be in a peasant’s smock. It had been spent 
in Paris, London, and New York. Life had 
sung in victorious measures. For one year she 
had been the petted wife of a rich man; then 
4 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


came failure, shock, blackness, and, at nine- 
teen, she had found herself bound and beg- 
gared. 

It was the common story of misplaced trust 
on the part of Anthony Dakon’s father in a 
man who had seemed good. The good man 
died. The Dakon investments were found to 
be a fiction, Anthony’s income having been 
regularly paid to keep up the fraud. The 
Dakon fortune had long been swallowed in 
speculation. 

Months of struggle afterward in a New 
York boarding-house, where the towels were 
few and the stewed prunes many, was not a 
pleasant memory to Mrs. Dakon on this heav- 
ily scented spring day; but even that time had 
had its variety and sparkle. The shops had 
been a paradise where boredom was forgotten, 
even if she went only to price things or to send 
them home to be paid for, without meaning to 
keep them, and men had looked at her on the 
streets as only pretty women are looked at. 

Anthony, at this time, hoped to rebuild his 
5 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


fortunes by an invention to be used in chem- 
icals, over which he had toiled and dreamed, 
but it had failed. When a good position had 
been offered him in a factory where muslins 
were colored and where his expert scientific 
knowledge was to help find those colors, he 
was glad to make his defeated way to Bate’s 
Crossing with his wife and baby. 

Here Mrs. Dakon’s reflections ceased to 
pass progressively. She had arrived at a stone 
wall. She had come to Bate’s Crossing eight 
years before. She was there still. She was 
likely to die there. The thought was intolera- 
ble. She pushed away the lilacs and went 
to the open window, placing her hands above 
her head on the cool glass to ease their fever. 

“ Some women would manage to escape 
from this. Some women would go — some- 
where — at any cost. Why can’t I?” she 
thought with fury against herself ; “ I couldn’t 
leave Ruth, that’s it. And Tony — he does his 
best. It isn’t his fault. I suppose I couldn’t 
leave him, either. I suppose I couldn’t forget 
6 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


his face. I suppose I’ll just stay on until I 
grow into a wrinkled frump — or else go crazy. 
Oh, I feel queer to-day! ” 

The sound of regular footsteps on the brick- 
paved street attracted her and she leaned out. 
It was a village funeral, the coffin on a cart, 
the mourners following. Some creature had 
left Bate’s Crossing forever. 

A ruminative look came into Mrs. Dakon’s 
eyes as the thought of death came nearer. 
Suppose Tony died before she did? Bate’s 
Crossing would be a necessity no longer. . . . 
There was his life insurance. . . . Suppose 
he died soon. . . . Poor Tony! . . . She 
would be a young and beautiful. widow. . . . 
She looked so well in black — fair women al- 
ways did. . . . Some people thought the 
little white wristbands and collar a labeling of 
oneself as widowed ; how ridiculous ! . . . She 
would be certain to wear them. . . . Poor 
Tony! . . . She heard herself showering all 
the virtues on him in the past tense! . . . 
Poor dear, at times he looked very ill. . . • 
7 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


Ruth and she would go away to New York 
and live simply on her small income; Ruth 
should wear all white, and they would go 
out together, hand in hand along Broadway, 
she in her crepe and violets and those darling 
little cuffs, and they’d go into crowded res- 
taurants for luncheon, or walk in the park. 
. . . And sometime, somewhere, among the 
many men who told her by their glances she 
was lovely, there would be one or two paying 
her fascinating little attentions — flowers, bon- 
bons, French novels. . . . She might go to 
Europe. . . . Poor Tony! . . . 

“ Noddy? ” 

At the whispered word she felt herself 
clutched and came out of her reverie. A girl 
of nine was gazing up at her with motherly 
inquisitiveness. She was covered by a Hol- 
land apron to the edge of her red skirt, a comb 
shaped like a half circle pushed her brown 
hair back from her forehead, which projected 
in a thoughtful curve over bright, greenish- 
hazel eyes. As she smiled, a very deep, irregu- 
8 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


lar dimple flickered in one cheek; her lips 
moved whimsically. It was an elfin face of 
beauty and mystery. 

“ Noddy, ain’t you coming down to lunch? ” 
she asked. 

Mrs. Dakon had taught Ruth to call her 
by this corruption of her Christian name. The 
sound of “ mother ” or “ mama ” was un- 
pleasant to her. 

“ You don’t mean, Ruth darling, that it’s 
noon? ” sighed Mrs. Dakon. 

“ Yep. We got a half holiday because 
Deacon Allen is dead,” and her eyes sparkled. 

“ Poor man! you mustn’t rejoice over his 
death, Ruth,” said Mrs. Dakon, in indifferent, 
remonstrance as she dressed. 

“ But, Noddy, he was over sixty, and he 
useter comb his hair in a long, slinky scrap 
over his head,” Ruth explained volubly, “ for 
there wasn’t — a — single smitch — no, not — a — 
single — smitch — up — there ! And he useter 
grunt when he stood up, and shake if a door 
was slammed, and his eyes cried all — the — 
9 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


time! And one tooth waggled whenever he 
spoke, like this,” said Ruth, pushing one of 
her own seed-pearls over her lip, and adding 
with a ministerial air, a perfect and uncon- 
scious imitation of the lank village clergyman : 
“ So, I guess it’s just as well he’s with his 
Father in Heaven. Don’t you, Noddy?” 

Mrs. Dakon’s smile was checked by the 
sober, questioning face. 

“ I suppose so, darling. Come along, and 
remember not to say ‘ ain’t ’ and ‘ yep ’ and 
‘ guess.’ ” 

With Ruth’s arrival Mrs. Dakon’s black 
mood passed and left her in a twilight regret, 
poetic and pointless. After luncheon she let 
the child brush her hair until the caressing 
fingers sent her to sleep. 

When the regular breathing told Ruth that 
her task was ended, she put away the brush 
and looked at her mother with an unchildish 
thoughtfulness, her finger on her lip. She 
admired her more than any one she had ever 
seen. Angels, she knew, had just such golden 
10 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


hair, so slippery to the touch, and just such 
deep gray eyes, with lashes around them like 
brown gauze, and just such little hands. Her 
mother was prettier than Allison Blount, the 
beauty of the school, and she didn’t seem a 
grown-up mother, either. In fact, Ruth felt 
an instinct of mature protection toward her 
mother, and this was shown now by her lifting 
a shawl and gently covering her with it before 
she stole away, with considerate eyes looking 
backward. 

When Anthony Dakon came home at six 
o’clock the table was arranged with sprays 
of lilac, and Nora wore a low-necked lawn 
gown of the same color. She dressed for 
dinner only occasionally, too discontented, as 
a rule, to feel sufficient interest. 

He kissed the delicately powdered cheek she 
lifted to him, and stood for a moment a 
little bewildered by fatigue before he dropped 
into the chair by which she stood. They sug- 
gested shadow and light. Instead of thirty- 
six, he looked more than forty. His black 
2 11 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


hair was lustrous with silver; his patient eyes 
were those from which the inventor’s dream 
had vanished. 

The man that never aspires has the belief 
to comfort him that he might, perhaps, if he 
would; but he that has striven to catch the 
bubble of any ambition and has fallen into 
space with empty hands, is forever in sack- 
cloth before the inward presence that urged 
him on. This was the mark on Anthony 
Dakon. Loss of fortune had been nothing. 
The failure of his invention had been fatal. 
His confidence in himself was splintered be- 
yond mending. He was a competent drudge, 
and would be one to the end. 

He went to the door, but paused to look 
curiously at his wife. 

“ What are you staring at? ” she asked. 

“ You get prettier every day, Nora.” 

“ That’s the first compliment in ages.” 

“ That’s a bully gown.” 

“Oh, it’s all the gown — not I!” she said 
impatiently. 


12 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


When he had gone she sat there, swinging 
her feet, her vanity smarting. Were all mar- 
riages at the best like hers after eleven years? 
— the passion, the dream, the excitement of 
each new day all gone? Anthony’s tepid, un- 
accustomed praise had, for a second, aroused 
a radiant ghost of her life as it had been when 
he had swept her into marriage by his im- 
pelling, burning love. 

“The difference!” she thought drearily; 
though, as she caught sight of her frowning 
face in a mirror, she carefully smoothed out 
the line between her brows. 

She had not the understanding to realize 
that her husband’s love for her had passed into 
his blood and was part of himself, though he 
had lost the art of expressing it. He would 
have died for her; he supposed she knew this, 
and it seemed enough. But it never is enough. 
These silent husbands are fatal mistakes. A 
woman does not want to know that the sun, 
though overcast, is in the sky; she wants to 
feel its heat wrapping her life. There is usu- 
13 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


ally an understudy preparing somewhere to 
play opposite parts to a pretty woman where 
the husband has failed to give intensity to his 
lines. 

At dinner Nora ate almost nothing. She 
was silent except when she corrected Ruth for 
humming, and feeding the cat. There was 
nothing to talk about. She had been reading 
a novel that afternoon, its scenes laid in Monte 
Carlo. Would she ever see that place? Or 
ever drive again as she did during one delicious 
year down the Rue Royale to the boulevards? 
Or look from a London hansom at the de- 
licious greenness of Bird-Cage Walk? 

Anthony’s voice broke in upon her dreaming. 

“ I’ve some pleasant news for you, Nora.” 

She felt no expectation. 

“ I did what might have been a foolish thing, 
but fortunately it has turned out all right. I 
had a letter, a month ago, from one of my old 
friends, a broker in New York, giving me 
some inside information about a speculation 
that could not fail. He did it out of pure 
14 


TIME , THtf COMEDIAN 


good-nature. Well, I don’t believe in risks, 
but, for a good reason, I ventured. I had put 
a part of my savings in a New York Central 
bond. This I put up as margin and bought 
a hundred shares of gas. It went up ten 
points, and I sold out almost at the highest 
figure.” 

“ I don’t understand a word of this, Tony.” 

“ It means I made a thousand dollars.” 

“ Oh, that’s good.” 

“ Seven hundred as savings will be practi- 
cally as good as a thousand,” he said, with his 
brief smile. “ You shall have three hundred, 
Nora, and you and Ruth shall go to New York 
for a holiday.” 

She grew very pale. A long sigh went 
through her. Her eyes became rapacious. 

“ Do you mean it? ” 

“You can go to Aunt Abby, you know, for 
part of the time.” 

“A month,” she said, and her hand closed 
over Ruth’s. 

“ May is lovely in New York. I only wish 
15 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


I could go with you. I’ll write to Lawrence 
Brundage to take you about. Larry’s an aw- 
ful swell, but the best-natured fellow in the 
world.” 

“O Tony!” was all she could say, and 
seeing a look of expectancy on his face, she 
went to his chair and kissed him. 

Her mind-picture of his death, which had 
been pleasantly sad, came back to her memory 
and touched her to a light remorse. As she 
ran her fingers through his hair, she mur- 
mured, “ I wish you could come, too.” 


16 


CHAPTER II 

It was after eleven. Breakfast was ready 
for Lawrence Brundage. Jenkins, who was 
almost a second mind to him as well as hands 
and feet, had pushed the table close to the 
open window, and, under the fluttering awn- 
ing, bits of morning life on Fifth Avenue 
flashed up in the May brilliance. 

Brundage appeared, an early morning 
frown on his otherwise agreeable face. Like 
many chronic travelers, he adopted within 
doors whatever of foreign habits was most 
conducive to comfort. In winter he liked for 
lounging a wadded Japanese kimono of dark 
silk, and felt slippers with one-toed, woolen 
stockings. For this warm morning he had put 
on a white linen suit, thin and loose, the sort 
17 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


he wore in the tropics, and his bare feet 
were in cane sandals. Clothes never digni- 
fied him. He gave character to whatever he 
wore. 

His figure was like an English guardsman’s, 
strong and graceful. Except for his light 
gray eyes, heavy and with a puffiness under 
them which proclaimed him a reckless liver 
at a glance, he was as Spanish as one of Velas- 
quez’s grandees. His expression was lazy. 
There was no expectancy in the face, but his 
smile was charming, and flashed over the 
weariness like a light. 

Jenkins uncovered a dish of strawberries 
and placed them before him, at the same time 
speaking in his self-effacing semitones. 

“ You didn’t say positively you’d go to Tux- 
edo with Mr. Wix, sir. Shall I pack? ” 

“No. I forgot to mention that I’m not 
going.” 

“ The deuce you say! ” cried Wix, who en- 
tered in riding clothes. “ Why not? ” 

“ Breakfasted? ” asked Lawrence. 


18 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


The other, perspiring and breathless, 
sprawled in a chair. He was a type that was 
at its best a century ago. He should have been 
a fox-hunting squire who lived in the pink and 
got drunk every night. His hair was as 
pale as new rope, and his short, thick nose 
verged on plum-color; in another five years 
his figure would have the outlines of a squat 
toby. 

“ I’ve had a cocktail and coffee at Clare- 
mont — two things that keep their charm no 
matter how seedy I am. Why aren’t you go- 
ing to Tuxedo? ” 

“ If I said it was because I didn’t want to, 
Charlie, would you think that sufficient? ” 

“ Oh, if there’s any mystery about it — ” 
came testily. 

“ There’s no mystery — merely this : I got 
a letter last night from Tony Dakon.” 

“ Isn’t he dead? Thought he went under, 
ages ago,” Wix said, in an injured tone, as he 
took a match from Jenkins. 

“Well, he didn’t, poor old Tony. He 
19 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


might as well, though — scratching for a living 
in a factory in Pennsylvania.” 

“ Bet he’s struck you for a loan, for old 
affection’s sake! ” 

Lawrence’s light eyes flashed; his lip gave 
a characteristic curl. 

“We won’t discuss him. I forgot you 
didn’t know him very well.” 

The color rushed into Wix’s face. His for- 
tune, now on its last legs, was a new one, and 
had been made by his father in a certain toilet- 
water. 

“ What do you mean by that? I knew him 
well enough to think he gave himself damned 
airs.” 

“ Charlie, shut up! You get more choleric 
every day. Try dieting. Now let me finish 
about Tony Dakon, who was and is a thor- 
oughbred, as fine a chap as God ever made, 
and with a run of the blackest luck following 
him.” The fatigue had gone from his face. 
It shone with sincere affection. “ This letter, 
which came last night, tells me his wife and 
20 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


her little daughter have come to New York 
on a short visit. He asks me to give her as 
much attention as I can, to do what I can 
to make her enjoy herself. I can imagine 
the poor woman is worn out from life in that 
hideous town. I mean to give her a good 
time.” 

Wix broke into a roar of laughter and 
kicked his legs. 

“ Will you go up Fifth Avenue with them? 
By Jove! I’ll stay in the club window and 
see the show, you and the countrywoman and 
the kid! ” 

He sprang up and gave a mincing exhi- 
bition of an over-attentive escort stooping to 
talk to a child and smiling with oily, exag- 
gerated sweetness. This was followed by 
antics with a supposititious doll, the setting off 
of pinwheels and blowing of balloons. The 
whole thing was a bit of perfect rough com- 
edy. Lawrence roared, and J enkins could 
not help a smile passing over his monk-like 
face. 


21 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


People often wondered at Brundage’s 
friendship for Charlie Wix, why he chose to 
have him share his houses and go with him 
on his long yachting cruises. This was the 
secret. Wix amused him. His caustic, coarse 
tongue and perfect mimicry could make him 
laugh. He was a present-day survival of a 
king’s jester. 

“ You make me eager for the experience,” 
said Lawrence. “ Our cry to-day is, ‘ Lord, 
give us something new ! ’ I’ll fly a balloon with 
Tony’s child, I swear.” 

“ While the mother looks on with a reticule 
over her arm, dressed all in drab silk, fastened 
with a brooch made of mother’s hair!” said 
Wix. 

“ I saw her at a distance ten years ago, in 
Paris. Jove! she was pretty then. Looked 
something like Ingres’s ‘ La Source.’ Just that 
big-eyed innocence and apple-blossom color- 
ing!” 

“ Well, after a ten-years’ dose of pie and 
hot bread for breakfast, of making over her 
22 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


clothes and doing the dusting, I’ll bet she’s 
yellow, with thin hair turning gray, and says 
‘ Yes? ’ to everything.” 

“ I shouldn’t wonder,” said Lawrence. 


\ - 


23 


CHAPTER III 


Mrs. Dakon went to a boarding-house in 
Thirty-second Street, near Fifth Avenue. It 
had been recommended by a friend to whom 
she had written. For the first three days she 
spent the time in the shops, mostly of the 
small and expensive sort, where she bought 
soft silk and mull frocks already made, which 
shamed those of the seamstress at Bate’s Cross- 
ing. She also bought a big hat twined with 
pink roses for herself; a Leghorn flat for 
Ruth, under which her sparkling face was 
like a vivid flower ; a big box of bonbons from 
a famous shop, silk stockings, big-buckled slip- 
pers, a flowering plant, novels, and fashion 
magazines. She drove from place to place in 
hansoms, lunched with Ruth at Delmonico’s 
and the Brunswick, both of which had sweetest 
memories for her, and she thrilled with satis- 
24 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


faction as she saw the appreciative and specu- 
lative expressions on the faces of men she 
passed. Life was just as satisfying as it had 
been ten years before. 

When the first keen edge of delight in 
simply being one of the crowd was gone, she 
sent a line to Lawrence Brundage and nerv- 
ously waited for his appearance at the ap- 
pointed hour. She and Ruth were arrayed in 
their prettiest clothes. Her pale blue muslin 
gave her face a porcelain pallor, and her gray 
eyes were like bright agates. When four 
o’clock came her hands were icy. She kept 
glancing at the door, fluffed her hair at the 
mirror, haunted the window, and gave a nerv- 
ous twitch when the servant came up with Law- 
rence Brundage’s card. As she went down the 
stairs with Ruth she felt helpless, awkward. 
This was the mark of Bate’s Crossing upon 
her — a timidity belonging to school-days. She 
tried to arrange in her mind what she should 
say to this “ awful swell,” as Tony had de- 
scribed him. While she was still perturbed, 
25 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


she entered the parlor and found herself face 
to face with him. 

He was leaning against the mantel directly 
opposite the door. But though he stood up 
straight quickly when she came in, he was too 
surprised to speak, and she saw the surprise. 
It gave her assurance, and she found herself 
murmuring at random the conventional noth- 
ings of greeting. 

The visit lasted perhaps half an hour. Dur- 
ing that time Lawrence took his eyes from 
Mrs. Dakon’s face only when he petted Ruth, 
with whom he became a favorite at once. 

This was the type of man Nora Dakon 
adored — good-looking, young, distinguished, 
fashionable, wealthy. She loved lazy eyes like 
his that brightened in appreciation of her chat- 
ter. He was a man who lived in the real sense, 
who had experienced everything, to whom 
stupendous luxury was as usual as bread and 
butter to her. She felt this with him. The 
suggestion that he had used up most of the 
best in him in the furnace of past emotions 
26 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


piqued her imagination, which was full-fed 
on French novels. To have such a man ad- 
mire her was the greatest triumph she had 
known in her life, and it was evident that he 
was astonished to find her beautiful, that he 
enjoyed being with her and meant to see a 
great deal of her. He had come because of 
friendship for Tony, and now he was thinking 
only of her. 

As she talked of her life and what the visit 
to New York meant to her, while Ruth nestled 
against his knees and played with his watch- 
fob, she had a delightful, subconscious cer- 
tainty of pleasant days in the future with him, 
perhaps of a friendship that would sponge the 
monotony from her life. 

“ What are you doing to-night? ” he asked, 
making ready to leave — “ anything? ” 

“ We’re dining with Tony’s aunt. She has 
a house near the park, and lives alone. Next 
week we go to stay with her a while.” 

“ Breakfast with me to-morrow at Clare- 
mont, then.” 


8 


27 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


“ Delicious,” she murmured. 

“ I’ll get a box for to-morrow night at the 
Academy of Music. A big show. I want 
to watch Ruth at her first ballet,” he said, put- 
ting his finger on her cheek where the dimple 
made a little well as she smiled up at him. 

“ I knew a little girl,” he said, “ who used 
to pray for a dimple like this, but she never 
got it.” 

“ I didn’t pray for it,” said Ruth solemnly. 
“ It didn’t come from Heaven. It’s only a 
dust-pan dimple.” 

“ She means she fell down against the point 
of a dust-pan and it marked her cheek that 
wav,” Mrs. Dakon explained. “ She calls it 
her dust-pan dimple.” 

“ Keep this fact to yourself,” said Law- 
rence, looking into Ruth’s serious eyes as 
gravely, “ or dust-pans will become fashionable 
and our beauties will try to fall against them 
at the proper angle. That big dimple is a 
nest for Cupid to move into and settle down, 
and he will, some day.” 


28 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


After he left, Lawrence made ready for 
a long ride into Westchester. He reached 
the country club for dinner after eight. Wix 
had ridden up, too, and was sprawling in his 
usual fashion at a table, his third cocktail be- 
fore him. 

“Well, how’s the balloon business?” he 
asked, when Lawrence joined him. 

“ Wait,” was the answer given with a mys- 
terious nod and smiling eyes. “ Wait till you 
see Tony Dakon’s wife. You’ll be knocked 
down.” 

“ From that smirk I take it that she’s 
pretty.” 

“ The loveliest little woman imaginable. 
Her eyes ” 

Wix waved his hand. 

“ Xo more. I can fill out the picture, nose, 
mouth, hair, etc. Worth knowing?” 

“ Rather. At least I mean to know her. 
You wouldn’t like her. She’s a simple, honest 
little creature ” 

“ I’m fond of the simple, honest brand. A 
29 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 

woman needn’t have a past in order to interest 
me.” 

“ Your first instinct would be to help her 
manufacture one.” 

“ Like your impudence! ” said Wix, staring. 
“ Since when did you go out of the business? ” 

“I’ve retired definitely,” said Lawrence, 
and began to order dinner. 

During three weeks following, Lawrence 
spent little time with Charlie Wix. A week’s 
fishing in Canada had been given up, and there 
was every prospect of Lawrence’s remaining 
in New York into June. Wix felt a personal 
resentment against Mrs. Dakon. Lawrence 
had become her shadow, but did not seem dis- 
posed to admit him to a close acquaintanceship 
with the country beauty. He had seen her 
driving with Lawrence, and one night he had 
dined with them at Claremont. It was an- 
noying that she should have come to town just 
when it was getting hot, and smash all the 
plans made weeks before. Then, too, the de- 
votion seemed likely to last. He had not seen 
30 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


Lawrence so interested in a woman in years. 
If he fell in love, really in love, what a muff 
he would become! There would be no fun 
with him. He would not go yachting or fish- 
ing; he might even go up and rusticate at 
Bate’s Crossing. 

“Wouldn’t surprise me in the least,” Wix 
thought as he made ready for dinner one night. 
“ He’s the kind of man a woman as pretty as 
she is could bowl clean over, and he wouldn’t 
know it till he whacked his head. Why can’t 
he be like me? There isn’t enough feminine 
loveliness in the world to compare with a 
good canvasback and a quart of warm Bur- 
gundy.” 

Lawrence came in at this moment, and Wix 
faced him with a pout. 

“ Going to dine with me? ” 

“ You’re to have that honor.” 

“ Why, what’s the matter with the Bate’s 
Crossing Venus? Has she a toothache? ” 

“ I’ve been a truant, Charlie, I admit,” said 
Lawrence, with a thoughtful self-conscious- 
31 


TIME THE COMEDIAN 


ness in his laugh, and he strolled into his bed- 
room to dress. 

Wix followed him, and made himself com- 
fortable in an East Indian chair. 

“ It’s up to me to give you a few words 
of counsel. You’re making an awful ass of 
yourself, Larry. It can’t be you’re seriously 
‘ gone ’ on this Mrs. Dakon.” 

“If such madness should beset me, I alone 
shall suffer. She’s my friend’s wife, and I’m 
not a Frenchman.” 

“But are you smitten there? If so, for 
heaven’s sake, cut it, and get your reason back. 
You look as gloomy this minute as a parson 
on a wet Sunday afternoon.” 

“ Don’t worry. She’ll soon be gone and no 
harm done,” he murmured. “ Now talk of 
something else.” 

Later, at dinner, he reverted to the subject 
himself. 

“ I want to speak seriously of Nora Dakon, 
Charlie.” 

“ Oh, it’s ‘ Nora ’ now? That’s a bad sign.” 

32 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


“ I must talk to some one, so be good enough 
to listen, and don’t sneer. I feel so sorry for 
her,” he said tenderly. “ Oh, I feel so hor- 
ribly sorry for that little woman.” 

“ Another bad sign — devilish bad,” Wix 
muttered rebelliously. 

“ Only one week more of her holiday and 
she has to go back to prison. A few times she 
has let herself go and told me all. Why, her 
life is frightful! Better tragedies, crimes, 
than a monotony that atrophies one’s senses. 
After this draught of life it will be worse than 
before.” 

“ She’s got a husband and child. What 
more does she want? ” 

“ She doesn’t want Bate’s Crossing,” said 
Lawrence angrily. “ She’s fit for something 
better.” 

“ There isn’t much to her besides her face, is 
there? ” 

“ She isn’t clever, true enough. If she had 
resources within herself, she could get beyond 
even Bate’s Crossing, in fancy. Her world 
33 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 

is what’s round about her and can be seen with 
her two eyes. She’s very much of a child. 
Her taste is for the great theater of the world, 
with a bit of the lime-light for herself now 
and then. That’s all she needs. In such an 
environment the hardest duty would be easy.” 

“ You can’t make her out a heroine, anyway, 
can you? ” asked Wix cheerfully. 

“ She doesn’t claim to be, yet for ten years 
she has been a heroine, after a fashion. With 
all her instincts drawing her one way, and 
without any strong fiber in her character, she’s 
been a sacrifice to circumstances without stri- 
king a blow for freedom that would have been 
gained by another’s pain.” He looked away 
from Wix’s cynical eyes as he murmured: 
“You see, we all have the angel within us, 
though with limitations to its soaring.” 

After a pause Wix lifted his creme de 
menihe and looked over it as he spoke : 

“ May I ask if you and this lady with the 
angel in her go hand-in-hand this week? ” 

Lawrence’s eyes grew hard at the jest. 

34 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


“ I’m going to open The Lawns for a week, 
and have Mrs. Dakon down there. Mrs. St. 
Leger will chaperon us.” 

“ And I?” 

“ You’re not invited,” said Lawrence 
clearly. 


35 


CHAPTER IV 


Mrs. Dakon opened her eyes and fixed 
them on the clock. It was half past nine. 
She turned on her arm and lay thinking. The 
windows were open, and from the ailantus 
trees came a birds’ chorus with full orchestra. 
Sunlight stole through the green blinds and 
danced on early Dakon portraits where like- 
nesses to Tony flashed out at her reproach- 
fully. The house was barely and straitly fur- 
nished with Colonial mahogany, and as quiet 
as a vault. 

She was so feverishly happy, so profoundly 
miserable. New York was a delight, a dream, 
an ecstasy, a place for bounding pulses, for 
life so keen it hurt. Bate’s Crossing was a 
threat, a frown, a cloud on the horizon, bitter 
36 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


dregs at the end of a delightful drink. She 
would not read her own heart. It held a truth 
she was not honest enough to face. She tried 
to forget what she had seen in Lawrence’s 
eyes. It was something of which he would 
never speak. 

One more week, and this life would be like 
a picture dissolved into shadow. She would 
look out on the prim street again, watch sum- 
mer melt into autumn, and autumn into the 
desolation of a Pennsylvanian winter; the 
day’s chapter would hold mush, bacon, ginger- 
bread, church-bells, Hannah, Tony’s departure 
for the factory in the morning and his coming 
home at night. She pressed her face against 
her nainsook sleeve and a passionate sadness 
went over her. Poor Tony! She did not 
love him, but she pitied him and felt a desire 
to be loyal to him. These two sentiments 
would send her back to the stagnation that 
made her wear a stony face to hide a sick 
heart. She was sorry for her husband. Life 
had used him badly. There was no prospect 
37 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


of escape for him in the future, either. No 
money would ever come to lift them out of the 
slough. There was only Aunt Abby left, and 
her fortune was in trust; having been received 
from her mother’s family, it would revert to it 
on her death. He was doomed to a treadmill 
through poverty, and, because she was his wife, 
she was doomed to bear the shackles and tramp 
beside him. 

She sighed, and sat up among the pillows. 
There was no way of summoning a servant. 
Her room was on the top floor, and Aunt 
Abby did not believe in bells in the bedcham- 
bers. They were too luxurious to suit her no- 
tions. If you were “ up and doing,” you did 
not need a bell. 

After a cold bath in a room two floors lower 
down, Nora crept into bed again. If only 
some good fairy would appear with her coffee 
now, instead of her having to dress and go 
down to the dining-room for it. Certainly 
Aunt Abby’s stern ideas of what was correct 
was the only jarring note in her visit. She 
38 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


was rising with a pout, when the door opened 
softly and Ruth appeared, carrying a tray with 
difficulty. 

“You darling!” her mother exclaimed. 
“ Strawberries, toast, coffee — m’m! Mother’s 
brick — that’s what you are, Ruth.” 

“ Hush,” said Ruth warningly. “ Speak 
easy. Aunt Abby has been looking this way 
ever since breakfast.” And she drew her lips 
down sourly in a way that made her mother 
laugh with delight. “ If she knew I’d 
brought up your breakfast, Noddy, she 
wouldn’t like it a scrap.” 

“ Mum’s the word, then, dearie,” and Mrs. 
Dakon put her teeth into a big, tempting 
strawberry. “ Any letters? ” 

A cloud passed over Ruth’s face. The look 
was more mature than any that crossed her 
mother’s. She drew one from behind her 
frilled apron-bib. 

“ One for me, from father.” 

“ None for me? ” 

“ He says it isn’t much use writing to you, 
39 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 

as you don’t answer,” said Ruth, opening the 
sheet. 

“ Why, I wrote to him a day or two ago.” 

“ Wasn’t it on Monday, Noddy? ” 

“ Well, perhaps it was,” she admitted. 

“ To-day is Friday.” 

She read her letter aloud very slowly. It 
was of the parental variety to the child. He 
hoped they were having a good time, but he 
would be glad when they came back. He 
missed his Ruth so much. Tell mama she 
did not answer his letters. There was no 
news. It was very hot in the factory, but 
the porch at night was cool, and Hannah 
took good care of him. They would be 
home in nine days more. A few conun- 
drums and puzzles cut from the village 
paper were enclosed, and he was her loving 
father. 

“ I must write to-day,” said Mrs. Dakon, 
her brow puckered. 

Ruth leaned against the bed and watched 
her while she ate. When her mother looked at 
40 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


her she was surprised to see the tears stealing 
down her cheeks. 

“ Ruth, what’s the matter? ” Mrs. Dakon 
said, startled, for she cried seldom. 

“ I want father,” she said very softly. 

“ But, dearie, we go back very soon.” 

“ I want him now. I want to go home.” 

She began to sob passionately, and Mrs. Da- 
kon drew her to her. She must be silenced. 
If Aunt Abby overheard, she would use it as 
an argument to hurry her back to Bate’s Cross- 
ing. Aunt Abby did not believe in wives and 
husbands taking holidays apart. In her opin- 
ion, both were apt to get into mischief. 

“ Hush, dear. Don’t let Aunt Abby hear. 
She’ll be so cross with poor Noddy. There, 
that’s better. Why, what’s the matter with 
my dearie? Tell Noddy.” 

“Don’t you think father wants us back?” 
Ruth said, controlling her sobs. “ Don’t you 
think he must feel awful sad when nobody’s 
home? Why does father look so sad, Noddy? 
Mr. Brundage doesn’t look that way, nor any 
41 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


of the men who walk so fast on Fifth Avenue. 
But father does,” she said, with sympathetic, 
wondering eyes. 

“ Poor father has to work so hard, dear. 
That’s it. But we’ll go back in one more 
week.” 

“ I want to go back now. I want to play 
old maid with him,” she said longingly. 
“ Can’t we go to-day, please, Noddy? ” 

Mrs. Dakon pushed away the coffee. Her 
eyes were bright and desperate. She must 
enroll Ruth on her side, for the child’s reason- 
ing could be reached and her partizanship 
gained. 

“ See here, darling, look at Noddy,” she said 
tenderly, with emphasis, and, as Ruth’s glow- 
ing, greenish eyes gazed wistfully at her, she 
continued rapidly: “You love me as well as 
father, don’t you? ” 

Ruth nodded vigorously, put her arms tight 
about her, and gave her a fierce kiss. 

“ Then you will think of poor Noddy a lit- 
tle, too. See here, Ruth, Noddy is not happy 
42 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


in Bate’s Crossing. It’s such a dull little 
place. Oh, she’s enjoying this visit to New 
York so much. It costs a good deal of money, 
darling, to go about and see things, and we’re 
poor, Ruth. Perhaps Noddy can never have 
this pleasure again, so her little darling brick 
of a love won’t cry to go home till the visit’s 
over in one week more. She’ll do this for 
Noddy, won’t she? ” 

The promise was given, and, with a mind at 
peace, Mrs. Dakon began to dress. Though 
her trunk was ready, she had as yet said noth- 
ing to Miss Dakon of the visit to Lawrence’s 
country house. 

“ She’ll give me the bow-wows soon 
enough,” she thought, as she curled her hair, 
unconsciously employing a word she had 
caught from Lawrence. “ Intolerable old 
maid! She hates for me to enjoy myself.” 

When she went down, an hour before lunch- 
eon, Miss Dakon was knitting by the back 
parlor window, the needles darting like small 
electric flashes between her slim fingers. 

4 43 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


“ Good morning, Nora,” she said in words, 
while the tone conveyed: “ I don’t approve of 
you at all. You’re a very vain, very idle, very 
light-minded person, and I’d like very much to 
box your ears.” 

“ Good morning, auntie,” said Mrs. Dakon, 
with unconcerned sweetness, savoring of de- 
fiance. 

She sat down in a deep chair, a picture of 
spring in a blue-and-white dimity morning 
frock, her arms bare to the elbow and crossed 
behind her head. She knew that Miss Dakon 
thought the gown unsuitable for a married 
woman, and that the bare arms were nearly 
immoral ; but these views were trivial beside the 
battle of opinions she knew was imminent. 
She plunged into the breach at once. 

“ Have you ever heard of Mr. Brundage’s 
country place, The Lawns, Aunt Abby? ” she 
asked in a cooing voice. 

“ Who hasn’t? It’s one of those big show 
places written up in the papers, and open for 
about two months of the year. I’ve no pa- 
44 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


tience with men of his stamp. He’s worth 
millions and millions; he’s over thirty, and 
single still; he has houses everywhere, a yacht, 
private cars — degrading luxury — for he hasn’t 
a serious thought, not a responsibility. Self- 
ish, sinful to the core. Why doesn’t he 
marry? What of his private life? Ugh! 
ugh! Don’t speak of it.” 

“ I’m not. I’m speaking of The Lawns,” 
said Mrs. Dakon, drawing a loose, shining hair 
through her fingers. 

“ Well, what about it? ” 

“ We’re going down there to-day, to stay a 
week.” 

Grimness pinched every wrinkle on Miss 
Dakon’s face, and she flung her head up like 
a war-horse. 

“ Does Anthony know of this? ” 

“ I haven’t mentioned it. I shall when I 
write to-day.” 

There was silence. Miss Dakon tried to be 
scathingly quiet, but she was too curious. 

“ Who’s going? I take it you’re not going 
45 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


alone with Lawrence Brundage. Or are you? 
Perhaps it’s become fashionable for a married 
woman to go to a bachelor’s country house by 
herself. You see, I’m old-fashioned,” said 
Miss Dakon, with angry eyes, “ and per- 
haps I don’t know what’s usual in these 
days.” 

“ He’s asking some others, of course,” said 
Nora placidly. “ I don’t know any of them. 
I remember, however, his speaking of Mrs. 
St. Leger.” 

“That woman!” and Miss Dakon’s gaze 
flew to the prism-laden chandelier. “Well, 
I might have expected it.” 

“ What’s the matter with her? ” 

“ Haven’t you read the New York papers 
during the last two years ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, I’ve read of her. But I don’t 
understand your scorn,” said Nora with un- 
ruffled impudence. 

“ She’s been divorced — twice. Her last 
husband is a divorced man. Both the others 
are married and are now among her — friends,” 
46 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 

said Miss Dakon in still, small tones of un- 
alloyed disgust. 

“ She got the divorce — I mean divorces — 
for all sorts of awful things. Well, under 
the circumstances, I think in being friendly 
with her ex-husbands she has shown a very for- 
giving disposition.” 

“ Nora! ” cried Miss Dakon, starting to the 
edge of her chair, “ you are doing this to pro- 
voke me. You think such flippancy clever. 
I call it outrageous.” 

“Why do we argue, Aunt Abby?” Nora 
laughed. “ You have the tastes of an early 
Christian martyr and believe in mortifying the 
flesh. I long for happiness, and will snatch 
every fragment that comes my way. Going 
to The Lawns is one of the fragments. It 
won’t matter to me personally if Mrs. St. 
Leger has had six husbands instead of three. 
We must take people as we find them. If 
they keep out of prison, it’s all we ought to 
ask of them.” 

Miss Dakon’s eyes gleamed with hate. 

47 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


“ I’ve been watching you. You’re one of 
these women who take color from the people 
you are among. A man like Lawrence Brun- 
dage dancing attendance on you morning, 
noon, and night — and far into the night — has 
done you no good. You’ve caught the jargon 
of the crowd of society to which he belongs. 
You were a foolish woman, very vain of your 
looks, when you came here. I begin to believe 
you’ll end by being — fast.” Miss Dakon 
stood up. “ I don’t suppose it’s any use ask- 
ing you to give up this visit and keep away 
from that St. Leger woman and all her tribe? ” 
“ Quite useless,” said Nora, the antagonism 
no longer veiled. 

“ Even if you got a telegram from Anthony 
summoning you back?” 

“ You’ve been writing to him, have you? ” 
she asked. “ Yes, I see you have. Then you 
might as well know, if twenty telegrams came, 

I’d go to The Lawns ” 

“And to the devil! ” snapped Miss Dakon. 
“Just the same,” Nora continued serenely, 
48 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 

but her face was very pale as she went to the 
door. 

“ Very well,” and Miss Dakon cleared her 
throat; “ I’ll say no more about it. But, as a 
favor, I wish you’d leave Ruth with me. You 
won’t miss her, and I’d like to take her to the 
Rutherfords at West Point to see the com- 
mencement exercises.” 

Nora hesitated, then a reckless desire for 
absolute freedom from every visible tie to her 
life at Bate’s Crossing swept through her. 

“ I’ve no objection, if she wants to go,” she 
said, and left the room. 


49 


CHAPTER V 


It rained obligingly that afternoon, and 
Mrs. Dakon had the felicity of wearing her 
new tan-colored rain-coat. She was conscious 
of looking very smart as she drove in a han- 
som to Long Island City, where Lawrence’s 
special car waited for the party to The 
Lawns. 

She looked at the glistening streets, the slab- 
sided tenement houses near the East River 
front, without really seeing them. The face 
of Lawrence Brundage was before her, its en- 
dearing smile and lazy eyes. Excitement had 
worked a miracle in her blood. It seemed ri- 
ding her heart in a struggle to win a race. 
Ordinarily her mind was not one to which alle- 
gory occurred readily, but she had a nervous 
feeling that the red-nosed driver stood for 
50 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


Fate, and that he was carrying her to her des- 
tination past unheeded danger-signs. 

When Lawrence came toward her in the sta- 
tion and gave her trunk check and satchel to 
his servant, the long look he bent on her was 
enough. The tension that had clasped her 
snapped. She felt content to drift, and flung 
the reins to happiness. 

“ We are seven,” he said, when later he pre- 
sented her to the others. 

An Irishman named Lawless, whom the 
others called “ Micky,” sat next Mrs. St. 
Leger. His hair was very black, teeth very 
white, and eyes defiantly blue. His last name 
suited him, for Micky’s air conveyed that he 
would rather enjoy smashing laws than other- 
wise. Mrs. St. Leger had a bull-terrier in 
leash, and she was disputing with Micky about 
a song. Each was singing it softly after a 
fixed idea, to the slaughter of harmony. 

Nora looked at this doubly divorced and 
trebly married woman with interest. She 
was a handsome brunette, plump and frankly 
51 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


forty. When she smiled she was prettier. It 
was evident that nothing could weigh her 
down. She would slip from any care as easily 
as she had slipped from the matrimonial har- 
ness when it grew irritating. 

The other three were Miss Peggy Drake, a 
tall, square-shouldered, clear-featured blonde 
of thirty ; a man that looked a little like Pade- 
rewski, and a lean, tanned Englishman, with 
a drawl and a monocle, who suggested fresh 
air and underdone beef. 

“ I must tell you about Peggy,” said Law- 
rence, when he had made Nora comfortable 
and proceeded to cut the leaves of a magazine 
which she had no intention of reading. 
“ She’s a ripping good sort. Men love her. 
I always provide at least two for her for her 
different moods. She’s neither a Bohemian 
nor a Philistine. She puzzles one and amazes 
the other. Now Johnny Todd, the fellow 
with the musical hair, thinks he can write — 
God help us ! — as Micky says. He loves fire- 
lit corners, twilight, and a good pair of ears. 

52 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


He generally reads his own stuff. There are 
times when a man of that sort amuses Peggy, 
but she steers him away from his own para- 
graphs to reading Beranger or George Moore 
without his knowing he’s been shelved. Then, 
at other times, she’s the best chum a really 
manny fellow can have. She’ll ride like the 
deuce all day and come back mud to her neck, 
sit up to venison, Burgundy, and that sort of 
thing, play a ripping game of billiards, bluff 
like a man at poker, and has horse and dog 
talk perfect. For that mood I’ve asked Sir 
Peter Gore. She’s just his sort.” 

“ Do you think it dreadful of Mrs. St. 
Leger to have been divorced and married so 
much? ” 

“ It’s a bad habit,” Lawrence smiled, “ but 
I, who never felt a tether, am not one to give 
an opinion. One thing must be said for 
Pussy,” he added, “ she did her best to make 
matrimony successful. Her partners were 
awful blackguards. She had patience up to 
a certain point, then over it went. You see, 
53 


TIME THE COMEDIAN 


she felt she was put here to have a fair share 
of human content, and the role of reformer to 
drunkards and Don Juans didn’t appeal to 
her.” 

“ If she loved them she must have suffered, 
but she doesn’t look as if she’d ever shed a 
tear.” 

“ She couldn’t love that way,” said Law- 
rence softly, and with a glance that added: 
“Not as you could, you dear little woman.” 

“ Tell me about Mr. Lawless,” said Nora 
hurriedly, for the look had set her tingling. 

“Micky? Oh, he just is, that’s all. He’s 
what one would call 4 willing and obliging.’ 
If the cook gave notice, Micky could cook a 
dinner deliciously. If somebody fell ill at the 
last moment when theatricals were on, Micky 
could step in and play Juliet and bear off all 
the laurels. He could head a drunken college 
riot, and preach a lecture on temperance to 
make the W. C. T. U. knit slippers for him. 
We’ve classified all now but our two selves,” 
said Lawrence, leaning nearer and speaking 
54 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


with sudden softness. “ How shall we be de- 
scribed? ” 

“ Oh, we can’t see ourselves as others see us,” 
she said evasively. 

“As others see us we are not complex rid- 
dles at all, I dare say. But we know, don’t 
we, that it would have been a good thing 
if Tony’s letter had reached my house 
when I was on The Sea-Bird, half-way to 
England? ” 

He said the words in a bitter, distracted 
murmur, and went away from her to Mrs. 
St. Leger. Micky took his place. 

When they reached The Lawns, blazing 
logs in the big hall and tea awaited them. 

“By‘ tea,’ ” said Lawrence, “ read anything 
you want. We’d better all take whisky-and- 
soda after this damp drive.” 

When he came upon Nora with a cup of 
chocolate and thin bread and butter, he ob- 
jected. 

“ You look pale. Take some Scotch.” 

“ I never touch whisky, as you know. It 
55 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


goes to my head,” she said, without meeting 
his eyes. 

“ That’s why you’ve a complexion instead 
of a skin,” said Mrs. St. Leger, looking at 
the pale amber fizzling in her own glass. “ It’s 
not that I like beauty less, but that I like high- 
balls more.” 

“ Isn’t she a veritable Bo-peep in style? ” 
Todd whispered, his eyes fixed on Nora. 

“And she has a daughter of ten or so. 
Think of it! Probably, too, she doesn’t know 
there’s such a thing as face massage in the 
world. But I can explain those baby con- 
tours and peach-blossom coloring. Johnny, 
that woman hasn’t lived yet. She isn’t even 
awake! All the doctors are wrong. A life 
of stagnation is the best preserver of beauty.” 

After dinner Micky sang gloriously. Even 
Mrs. St. Leger, with a heart like seasoned 
leather, could not but feel there was something 
in life of which she knew nothing when those 
tenor notes breathed with a tenderness like 
tears, “ She is far from the land where her 
56 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


young hero sleeps.” His voice made love to 
a roomful. 

Later they killed an hour with roulette, and 
the women went to their rooms by eleven. 
Lawrence had avoided even a momentary 
tete-a-tete with Nora, but when she stood be- 
fore the shield-shaped mirror in her room pull- 
ing out her hairpins absently, she was con- 
scious of a new feeling, a happiness with guilt 
in it. 

The words Lawrence had spoken in the 
train were the first that told her of love for 
herself and an unwilling disloyalty to Tony. 
He should not have said them. Having heard 
them, she should now regret that the mask of 
friendship had fallen. But instead, she was 
frightened at the desperate joy that mastered 
her. She had never supposed she could be a 
wicked woman, but she must be, for she was 
glowing and rejoicing in what she knew was 
wrong. 

As she lay awake in the silence, a story she 
had read somewhere occurred to her, of a man 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


led to die on a roadside gibbet, who stopped 
to pick a rose upon the way. Bate’s Crossing 
was her punishment, and if she took back for 
memory the red, wild flower of Lawrence’s 
love, what harm was there in it, after all? 


58 


CHAPTER VI 


“ Good morning, Bo-peep. So you affect 
fresh air and early dews with all the other 
virtues, do you? ” 

Mrs. Dakon stood still in the park avenue 
where the pale sun struggled to live and the 
trees dripped, and waited for Mrs. St. Leger, 
who, with her hands in a pea-jacket and a bull- 
terrier at her heels, was striding toward her. 

“ I couldn’t sleep, and thought a walk would 
take the cobwebs out of my brain,” said Nora, 
as they went on together. 

“ Why couldn’t you sleep? ” Mrs. St. Leger 
gave her a sharp glance and the fresh color 
poured over her face. 

“ Partly because,” she said wistfully, “ this 
week ends so much that’s delightful.” 

“ Larry Brundage was telling me about 
59 


5 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


you. Must you go back to that horrid little 
town? Why not make your husband come to 
New York? ” 

“ He can’t. He’s sure of a competence 
there, and something better in the future. His 
niche is there.” 

“ But perhaps yours isn’t.” 

“ Oh, yes,” she said in a colorless voice, 
“ it is.” 

“ Lost his money, etc., failed, and all the 
rest — sad,” said Mrs. St. Leger, striding on 
with her face up to the mist. “ I dare say 
I’m a pig, but I’d get away if I were you. 
You see, this one life means so much to me, 
I hate even to lose the early morning lying 
in bed. I believe in making all the investments 
Nature has given me pay well, and I’m fair 
enough not to keep anybody else out of his 
profits. Now, here’s the way I look at things: 
A man has no business to fail. When his ship 
has sprung a leak, it’s generally due to mis- 
management or conceit, and it’s a foolish 
woman who helps him plug up the holes and 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


tries being comfortable with him on the wreck. 
Wrecks are cold, my dear, and they don’t have 
any modern conveniences. I’d advise her to 
select a good life-preserver and leap over- 
board, trusting to being picked up by a spank- 
ing yacht with a good-looking owner.” 

Nora moved from her a little, dislike in her 
gaze. 

“A man wouldn’t treat a wife that way,” 
she said hotly. 

Mrs. St. Leger burst into a ringing laugh. 
She stood still and apostrophized the trees. 

“Wouldn’t he? Oh, hear her, hear her! 
Is there anything more absolutely new-born 
than this person beside me in a tan coat? My 
dear,” she said, turning sharply, “ men make 
women abide by their mistakes. If a wife 
drinks, she’s called a dipsomaniac and clapped 
into a sanitarium. The clubs would be pretty 
empty if unhappy wives did that. How many 
men go into voluntary exile in Siberia with 
convict wives? Ever heard of one? Women 
do it every year. It’s time we slew these ready 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 

sympathies and took a few lessons from 
men.” 

“ You have no illusions,” said Nora. 

“Bother illusions! They’re cheats,” she 
said, shivering her chubby shoulders. “ They 
hold out promises they never fulfil. You’ll 
never be really comfy till you’ve stuck a pin in 
each one and left it squirming. Now let’s get 
in to coffee. This mental exercise has given 
me an appetite.” She slipped her arm through 
Nora’s and laughed: “ You poor baby, though 
you have a daughter, you’re not grown up at 
all. I wonder what you’ll do when you get 
your understanding? ” 

As that day passed, and the next, Nora 
saw that the rest of the party kept apart from 
her and Lawrence. They were left outside a 
circle; tete-a-tetes were forced upon them. 
The knowledge made her nervous. She was 
like a child stealing a sweet she was afraid to 
taste. Lawrence perplexed her, too. He 
looked pale, almost surly. He was given to 
long silences, smoked a great deal, and at 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


times dared to give her a long gaze eloquent 
with a burning declaration that set her pulses 
quivering like imprisoned birds. Sometimes 
during half an hour spent alone they did not 
exchange a word. * 

On the third afternoon verging on dusk, 
he drove her home from the country club, 
where a pigeon-match had drawn a crowd. 
Micky was riding with Peggy Drake just 
ahead, and his sweet, tenor tones came back 
to them along the blossoming ways : 

“ Your hands to-day are not here, 

Yet lay them, love, in my hands. 

The hour-glass sheds its sands 
All day for the dead hours’ bier ; 

But now, as two hearts draw near. 

This hour, like a flower, expands — 

Oh, love, your hands in my hands.” 

“ Do you know the rest of that song? ’* 
Lawrence asked suddenly, and reined in the 
horses till they almost stopped, Micky’s voice 
growing fainter and fainter. 

The dusk made a cloak for them and folded 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


them together. Fragrance from damp, open- 
ing flowers swept their faces. There was an 
intimate silence which seemed waiting for 
words heavy with fatality. 

“ Your eyes are afar to-day — 

Yet love, look now in mine eyes. 

Two hearts sent forth may despise 
All dead things by the way. 

All between is decay. 

Dead hours and this hour that dies. 

Oh, love, look deep in mine eyes.’* 

The words were spoken slowly, almost in a 
whisper, and he sighed. He felt miserable. 
He had never in his life denied himself what- 
ever seemed good unto him. For the first 
time, Honor stood at the beginning of the 
path he longed to journey upon and held up 
a forbidding hand. 

“ Why did you come here? Why did I ever 
see you? ” he said, and drew a long breath of 
passionate resignation. 

Nora’s head drooped, and sadness rushed 
over her. The inevitableness of their parting 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


was never clearer, Bate’s Crossing never more 
ominous. She shivered, and shook her head. 
He continued looking at her with those mis- 
erable eyes, but did not touch her tightly 
folded hands. 

“ It’s a wretched thing altogether,” he said 
softly. “ You’ve knit yourself into my life, 
and, when you go back ” 

“ Don’t speak like this,” she said, and he 
saw tears flooding her eyes. “ It hurts so.” 

“ Let’s be frank for once,” he said defiantly; 
4 4 tell the truth, and then take cheerless virtue 
as a tonic for our souls. Listen, then. You’ll 
go your way, and I mine, very soon. But I’ll 
never forget you, and I’ll never see you again. 
My ailment will require heroic treatment. 
Good-by will mean good-by.” 

The tears were now dropping on her hands. 
He went on without pity. 

“ Tony should have come with you. I blame 
him for that. Had he come, we wouldn’t have 
known each other in this delightful, intimate 
way. You wouldn’t have become a tempta- 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


tion, a necessity. However, it’s over now. 
I’ve conquered myself. For me, the wide 
world, with your eyes haunting me; for you, 
Bate’s Crossing and peace.” 

“No, never peace,” she murmured, with a 
sob. “ Oh, never peace again! ” 

He touched the horses with the whip, and 
the drive was continued in silence. A groom 
came across the lawn and stood by the horses’ 
heads when the big, arched portico at The 
Lawns was reached. In the shadow, Law- 
rence lifted Nora down, and, for a second, his 
arms closed around her in longing. When 
they entered the big hall, bright with lamp- 
light, both were pale. 

Mrs. St. Leger was talking in her usual 
fashion with Peggy Drake, and after Law- 
rence’s passionate renunciation, her words had 
the ring of brass in Nora’s ears. 

“ Who sets the fashions? Who makes fads? 
We, my dear, we, the women who are married, 
more or less.” 

“ Still, I’m afraid of marriage. It’s a horse 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 

that’s always handicapped too heavily to win. 
The odds are all against it,” said Peggy, who 
looked very handsome, as she lounged in her 
riding-clothes. 

“ You’re foolish to scratch it, Peggy. If 
it fails in one race, it wins in another. If you 
lose in a steeplechase, my dear, change around 
and try it on the flat. I’ve done it, and I’m 
going very nicely, thanks. Bo-peep,” she 
rambled on, “ what have you been doing to 
Larry? He looks like a monk that has just 
renounced the world, the flesh, and the devil.” 

“No, I haven’t cut your acquaintance yet,” 
said Lawrence, as he lit a cigar. 

That night, after twelve o’clock, Nora stole 
away from the rest to her room. Peggy, Sir 
Peter Gore, Micky, and Mrs. St. Leger were 
playing baccarat; she had last seen Lawrence 
with Todd in the library. She left without 
saying good night to any one. When she 
reached the top of the stairs, Lawrence 
stepped from the shadow and took her in his 
arms. 

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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


“ I love you,” he said, and kissed her till 
her brain swam. “ I am mad to say it. You 
are mad to let me. But, oh! I love you, I 
love you, Nora, and I can’t give you up.” 

“ No, no, no,” she sobbed in joyous terror, 
broke from him, and ran to her room. 

Once there, she stood like a wild creature, 
trapped. Fear and self-knowledge shook her. 
She loved Lawrence Brundage so that any 
madness might become reasonable. She dared 
not stay near him. She loved him. She must 
go away, now, before it was too late. She 
loved him. She must put away all thoughts 
of him and remember what was true and 
right, Tony who trusted her, Ruth who needed 
her. Oh, she loved him, loved him! Dazzled, 
grief -stricken, remorseful, thirsting for the 
love she put away, hating the sacrifice she 
must make, she knelt by her bed and sobbed 
hours away. In the morning Lawrence’s 
man brought him a note from her: 

“I’m leaving on the six o’clock train. You can have 
my trunk sent after me to Bate’s Crossing. Say a tele- 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 

gram called me home. Good-by. I am not heartless, 
like Mrs. St. Leger, nor wise, like Peggy Drake, and I’m 
old-fashioned enough to hate deceit. I’m going home to 
Tony. You wish we had not met. I wish it, too.’* 

He set his teeth as he tore it up. There 
was a new look, a hard one, on his face. 


69 


CHAPTER VII 


Amazing transgressions that shatter lives 
are never the result of a plunge. The end is 
gained step by step, timidly, haltingly, with 
fascinated eyes that peer into the darkness, 
many a look back, many a thrill of fear. By 
the time the feet have reached the lowest ledge, 
expectancy has familiarized the place. What 
seemed an abyss, is a valley of wonderful 
beauty. The fruit hangs low and shining. 
The river on which we are to embark runs 
madly, and is said to ripple through entrancing 
scenes farther on, when the shadow cast by 
the mountain is left behind. There is no re- 
gret for the hills of peace, nor the sleepy 
fields, far above, where stolid toilers work and 
know nothing of the fever of life, which is 
to be so ravishing, so sweet. 

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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


One day, late in July, Nora Dakon was 
waiting in a wood not far from her home. 
Lawrence, who the day before had come to 
lodge in the next village under an assumed 
name, was to ride that way, and she was wait- 
ing for him. Since the morning when she hur- 
ried from The Lawns at dawn, much had 
happened. His pursuit of her had been relent- 
less. That act had been a whip to his desire, 
and had changed him from a half-hearted 
sinner, beset by scruples, into a determined one. 

She had not seen him, but many letters had 
been exchanged between them. Every tactic, 
every influence and artifice known to Law- 
rence from a varied experience in romantic 
adventures, had been used unsparingly in those 
burning lines. Nora tried to resist, while she 
continued to invite them, knew sleepless nights 
which had made her thinner, had suffered 
anguish of mind and body, for it hurt her to 
contemplate being cruel, and now, after two 
months, she had come to one decision: she 
would rather have one month of life with Law- 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


rence with death at the end of it, than all 
the sweets the future could crowd into long 
years without him. She had come to be clay 
in his hands. She felt an adoration so over- 
whelming it terrified her. It was her impulse 
to obliterate herself and be a part of him, an 
echo of him, to sacrifice herself for him — any- 
thing — to express how fully he was life and 
light and being to her. 

Women who fling themselves to this sort 
of self -crucifixion are generally of Mrs. 
Dakon’s caliber. They are not clever enough 
to know that man is a contrary animal and 
would rather live with a termagant than a mar- 
tyr. The resigned shoulders bent obligingly 
for his blows he can scornfully forget, but 
two pretty fingers snapped under his nose 
make him wink and remember. 

The final question had been written by 
Lawrence : 

“Will you give up everything and go away 
with me? Do you love me well enough for 
that? ” 


72 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


“ Yes, even for that,” she had answered. 

To-day he was coming to make the final 
arrangements. Soon this life would be cast 
behind, and she would be his forever. It had 
to be. 

Her handkerchief tied to a tree was the sig- 
nal to him where to find her. After a feverish 
ten minutes of waiting she heard him speaking 
to his horse as he tied him, before he came 
through the green gloom to her side. She sank 
trembling into his arms, and her thin face, 
her wild eyes, sent pity through him. This 
tremendous infatuation meant a great deal to 
him, since he was going to fling his defiance 
to the world, which would either flay him as a 
villain or give him a shrug as a fool. But 
the first sight of Nora told him it meant a 
fearful thing to her. 

“You frighten me, Nora,” he said, as they 
sat down on a fallen tree, their hands clasped. 
“ I’m tearing up your life by the roots. Are 
you afraid, dear? Do you hesitate? ” 

Her smile was one of amaze. 

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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


“ I got past all that long ago — past even 
having the thought of leaving Ruth hurt me. 
I’ve come to feel a solace in knowing that she 
will help comfort Tony.” The tone was mat- 
ter-of-fact. “ I can’t stay long, dear. It’s 
dangerous. We might be seen. But, oh, it’s 
good to see you! Tell me what I’m to do, 
and when.” 

They parted a few moments later. He 
rode down the road and paused. When she 
reached a turning, she looked back. They 
waved good-by to each other. 

Lawrence’s yacht, The Sea-Bird , was to lie 
in Boston harbor in three days with stores 
aboard for a long cruise. Mrs. Dakon was to 
go to an old school friend there, ostensibly to 
inquire about a boarding-school for Ruth. 
She was to go aboard The Sea-Bird at night. 
The anchor would be lifted, and she would 
steam away to a future purchased at consid- 
erable cost. 

Our best-laid plans are only bubbles fash- 
ioned for sunlight. An untoward breath, and 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


they are gone. On the eve of Mrs. Dakon’s 
departure her husband killed himself. 

She had gone for a long walk with Ruth 
that afternoon, during which she had stopped 
many times in quiet paths and kissed the child 
passionately, telling her, no matter what 
happened, to remember always that Noddy 
had loved her. Ruth’s delighted but careless 
responses had made her know a momentary 
horror of herself, but the feeling had been 
wiped out in the rush of sacrificial worship 
which the thought of Lawrence called up. 

Hannah met them at the door. Her stupid 
face was gray and twitching. 

“ Something’s happened to Mr. Dakon,” she 
said hoarsely. 

“ What do you mean? ” asked Nora, search- 
ing the woman’s awful face. She pushed 
Ruth back on the piazza, and closed the door. 

“ He — he — came home an hour ago,” Han- 
nah said with difficulty. “ I thought he looked 
ter’ble bad as he came up the path. I rushed 
up to the hall. ‘ You’re sick, Mr. Dakon,’ I 
6 75 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


says. ‘Yes, Hannah,’ he says; ‘my head is 
simply racked with pain. I couldn’t stand 
the factory any longer. Get me a powder,’ he 
says, ‘ an’ I’ll lie down.’ Oh, he did look bad 
— so white, his forehead all puckered as ef 
the light was hurtin’ him. My heart jest ached 
fer him ” 

“ Go on,” said Nora wildly, as the woman 
stopped to whimper, her eyes frightened. 

“ There was a letter on the dinin’-room 
table, an’ he took it up as he passed to the 
libr’y ” 

“What letter? What letter?” Her lips 
were dry and stiff. 

“ It hadn’t no name on it — jest to this street 
and number it was. It had a yeller post-office 
envelope on it — dead letter, it said. I noticed 
it most particular because I had one back 
oncet, when I forgot to put on my sister’s ad- 
dress right, an’ they opened my letter to — to 
find out where to send it back ” 

A monstrous fear had come into Nora’s 
eyes. She sat down on the hall chair. 

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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


“ Well, m’m, I wuz so anxious to git the 
phenac’tine, in my hurry I couldn’t find it for 
a long time among all the bottles, but at last 
I did, an’ I went up. I wuz jest goin’ to 
knock at the door, when, oh, m’m, I heard a 
sound that wuz awful — kinder a moan or a 
sob — seemed as if it come from a broken heart. 
It jest went though me like a knife, an’ I’ll 
never fergit that sound. When I knocked, 
there wasn’t no answer, so I opened the door, 
an’, oh, m’m — Mrs. Dakon, m’m — he wuz 
lyin’ against the desk in a heap like.” Her 
wide, pale mouth grew flaccid. “ There wuz 
somethin’ in his hand. I didn’t hear any shot 

— but, oh, when I see what it wuz ” 

Ruth had commenced to beat on the door. 
“ I want to see father. Let me in. I want 
to see him! ” she shrieked. 

“ Keep Ruth out,” said Nora, forcing her 
voice. “ Stay with her.” 

It seemed as if she would never reach the 
room. Her feet were weighted. The air was 
crimson before her rigid eyes. When she 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


saw Anthony, his head fallen sideways, his 
shoulders hunched under the serge coat, the 
numbness passed. She shook in every limb, 
whispering : 

“Oh! oh! oh! ” 

He was dead. The silence around him pro- 
claimed it. But the enormity of it did not 
reach her then. Her mind groped for the 
reason for the act. That letter — she must see 
it. This was not her fault. It could not be — 
it must not be her fault. That letter! He 
knew nothing — he could not have known. She 
must be clear of this. She must settle that 
fact first with herself before her mind had 
room for another thought. That letter ! 

Without looking at his face, she moved 
around him, as if afraid of disturbing a 
sleeper, and searched rapidly, her eyes rapa- 
cious. It seemed as if she were not breathing 
until she should be cleared. She put her 
fingers into his pockets, and when from the 
one on the left side of his coat she drew them, 
wet and red, she only wiped them stupidly on 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


her skirt, as she turned from him and swept 
the room with her wild, darting gaze. 

She flew to the hearth. There was some 
charred paper there which rustled like dry 
leaves at her touch. Deep in it, like the core 
of an uncanny fruit, a few pieces were left. 
They were morsels of her own gray-blue 
paper, her own writing on them. 

“Never regret,” was on one; “before I 
loved you, and — ” was on another; “ days on 
the Mediterranean — ” was on a third; “such 
happiness, Larry,” was on the last. He had 
found out all, the very worst. She recognized 
this letter as one in which her coming days with 
Lawrence on The Sea-Bird had been ecstati- 
cally dwelt upon. 

With these fragments in her hands, she 
looked for the first time at her husband's face. 
Had Mrs. Dakon possessed a quick imagina- 
tion and been familiar with Roman history, it 
might have occurred to her that another dead 
face must have worn the same look a long 
time ago — amazement, heart-break, and re- 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 

proach, as if the lips still said, “And thou, too, 
Brutus? ” 

A physical terror came down upon her. She 
shrieked, and flung the door open. 




80 




CHAPTER VIII 


The funeral was over. Ruth at times broke 
into passionate cries and demands for her 
father to come back. But the thin, imploring 
wail which she had uttered while she haunted 
the coffin and watched his sculptured face, 
“Don’t put father in the ground. I don’t 
want him put in the ground. Oh, please don’t 
put him in the ground! ” no longer tortured her 
mother. 

The house was a horror to Mrs. Dakon. Al- 
though nervously ill, she spent the time in the 
sunshine, walking up one road and down an- 
other, her hands clutched. She was stupefied 
by this blow, which had struck the reins of her 
life from her hands. The thought of the 
letter which had turned her husband’s weari- 
ness to a conquering despair dogged her like 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


a specter. Tremblings passed over her; she 
struggled in a profound soul-sickness. 

At first she had a feeling that by never 
thinking of Lawrence she was, in a sense, ma- 
king reparation. Indeed, the thought of him 
meant helplessness, panic. But as the dull 
weeks crept by, a narcotic was in some way 
generated from the medley of suffering. She 
found herself speculating on what life would 
be like when she had gone from Bate’s Cross- 
ing and they met face to face. In Tony’s 
death there was, instead of acute, personal loss, 
a feeling of horror and remorse, and this, each 
day that passed, subtly blunted. She really 
loved Lawrence Brundage, and love for a liv- 
ing man is bound to subjugate pity for a dead 
man. The worst had happened, and the nat- 
ural rebound was toward happiness. 

On the night of the tragedy Nora had writ- 
ten Lawrence an hysterical account of the sui- 
cide, concealing nothing. The next day a 
telegram of comfort, followed by a short, self- 
reproachful, tender letter, had come from him. 

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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


That was all, and now Anthony had been 
dead five weeks. Miss Dakon, who had come 
on for the funeral, had continued with Nora, 
and they were busy preparing to return to 
New York together. The furniture was to 
be sold at auction, and she was to begin a 
new phase of life, with about seventeen thou- 
sand dollars as her capital. 

She often sat alone and dreamed about the 
future. The coming months unrolled them- 
selves before her. Lawrence and she would be 
circumspect and patient. There would be a 
year of their lives offered up as a sacrifice 
to conventionality, and then — the future to- 
gether, the wide world before them. Poor An- 
thony had been dealt a secret, mortal blow, 
and nothing could ever change that fact, or 
wholly wipe out its corroding bitterness, but 
in all other respects her marriage to Lawrence 
would be a wise and fortunate thing. The 
world would think she had the greatest luck. 
She would flash into social fame for having 
won such a parti from his determined bachelor- 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


hood. Her marriage would open a brilliant 
future for Ruth. She would be so good to the 
poor. Tears, like those of a repentant child, 
streamed down her face. She would be so good 
to all that suffered — yes, and to all that had 
sinned. In these days, looking spiritual and 
grave-eyed in her black clothes, she was sen- 
sitive, emotional, and knew a deep tender- 
ness, never understood before, for all that 
had made mistakes. Perhaps God would 
forgive her the wreck of one life if she saved 
many. 

While indulging in this self-communion, 
she began to look for a letter from Lawrence. 
She appreciated the delicacy that had kept 
him mute and non-intrusive ; but as the desire 
for happiness grew, the longing to see him 
kept pace with it. When she could bear the 
silence no longer, she sent him a few lines, 
asking him to write, and saying she would 
soon be in New York. 

This was forwarded to Lawrence in New- 
port. He read it, crushed it in his pocket, and 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


went to dinner at Mrs. St. Leger’s. The meal 
was a torture. He prepared to leave at the 
earliest possible moment. 

“ I’ve never known you really dull before, 
Larry,” said his hostess, as he strolled up to 
her on the piazza to say good night, while the 
rest were still idling over liqueurs. “ I’ve 
known you bored, perverse, but never stupid. 
You’re not looking well, either. What’s the 
row? ” 

“A headache. Nothing more interesting.” 

“ That’s contrary to human geography.” 
She raised her brows and cigarette at the same 
time. 

“ I’m afraid I am dull. Enlighten me.” 

“ Why, the aches of love are popularly sup- 
posed to affect the heart.” She made a dis- 
tinct pause, and added clearly : “ I should 
think Bo-peep would make a dear little morsel 
of a widow. This may seem irrelevant, but 
it’s not.” 

Lawrence’s boredom grew deeper at these 
words, and he showed it. 

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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


“ Such tangential flights are too maddening 
for a man with a headache to follow. Good 
night.” 

She held his fingers for a moment and 
looked at him shrewdly. 

“ How well I read the signs in you, Larry.” 

“ Still I don’t understand.” 

“ I could give expert prophecy that you are 
not going to contradict your sex. Poor Bo- 
peep ! ” 

“ Don’t you think, Pussy, you’re a bit in- 
terfering? ” he said, paling. 

“No, a bit daring, that’s all. I’ve pulled 
a little of the gilt off the gingerbread of 
your intentions, Larry. Without the trim- 
ming it’s a nauseous little morsel, and poor 
Bo-peep will cry when she tastes the horrid 
stuff.” 

“ When you finish with metaphor ” 

“ Oh, would you rather? Well, here goes. 
I took a great fancy to that foolish little Bo- 
peep. When she gets hurt, she’ll go all to 
pieces. I’m sorry for her, for I can see you 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


mean to throw her over. That’s all, Larry, 
and we’re good friends just the same. These 
things are part of life. Poor little thing!” 

He walked home, making a new acquaint- 
ance with himself. Instead of joining Wix, 
who was in the dining-room with some men, 
he went to a seat in the garden at the back, 
from which the starlit sea could be seen, a 
sparkling, heaving, sighing companion for his 
mood. Pussy St. Leger’s words had been 
brutal. He faced the idea that they might be 
true. He was aware now that from the mo- 
ment Anthony’s suicide had been made known 
to him, the sense of shock and remorse had 
been mixed with another feeling, an enlight- 
enment that had hinted that Nora Dakon, free 
to be won and married, was different from the 
same woman when she was a torturing tempta- 
tion for whom one might commit a superb, 
even scandalous, indiscretion. The pretty 
fruit that had hung high was not inviting when 
offered on a dish to be honestly selected be- 
fore all men. 


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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


Truthfully, then, it had come to this: he 
was not in love with Nora Dakon. His in- 
fatuation had been the result of conditions 
which poor old Tony’s suicide had changed 
completely. He told himself that even as 
Tony’s wife, Nora and he would have known 
each other for a lifetime, probably, without 
a guilty thought, had he not met her in New 
York alone and pitied her first. 

“A man’s temptations are often a matter 
of environment,” he decided, as he smoked, 
“ and a woman’s a matter of mood. If she 
hadn’t hated going home, she wouldn’t have 
fallen in love with me, I could swear.” 

Then Pussy St. Leger was right. He 
meant to “ throw her over.” 

Pussy had a villainous tongue, an ugly way 
of saying things, and her own experiences had 
made her a scorching judge of men. He was 
not going to do anything a gentleman might 
be ashamed of, but he was not going to marry. 
He had made up his mind long ago he never 
would marry. Nothing could alter that. He 
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would, however, write to Nora — and keep 
away from her. Matters would gradually ad- 
just themselves. She would find him a friend, 
a rare one. He was still so fond of her, poor 
little woman! He would make amends. He 
owed it to her for poor old Tony’s sake to 
make big amends, and he would. 

Still, that night he dreamed of her, of her 
soft eyes and pleading kisses, and awoke ha- 
ting himself. A cold calculation of interests 
was impossible to him. He could be im- 
pulsively unjust and cruel without being base, 
just as good aspirations could sway him in 
passing without making him noble. One side 
of his nature shuddered at the silken cruelty 
that was now a determination. But he was 
not going to marry. 

The summer passed. Nora went from town 
to Southampton with Miss Dakon and Ruth, 
from Southampton to the Adirondacks, from 
there back to the house in Fifty-seventh Street. 
These places had had no more substance to 
her than a dream. Her heart was starving. 

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Three evasive letters from Lawrence were all 
it had had to feed on. She read them many 
times every day, and her eyes grew to have a 
frightened look. She had tried to believe that 
when New York was reached again she would 
have what she craved — the sight of him, his 
voice, his touch. Her expression was feverish 
all day, exhausted and hopeless at night. He 
had not come to-day; that was a husk flung be- 
hind her, and she looked toward the morrow. 
The sound of the bell, a letter, a footstep, sent 
the color in wavering flashes into her thin face. 
She would go out hoping to meet him, and 
hurry home fearing to miss him, and, with all 
this eating torment in her soul, she had to 
be silent. There was no one to understand 
and help her. Nora divined that while 
Miss Dakon sheltered her, she was really her 
judge. 

Miss Dakon was a shrewd woman, and she 
guessed the truth: Anthony’s suicide lay at 
this woman’s door. She was having her pun- 
ishment now in the indifference of Lawrence 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


Brundage, for whom she was longing as one 
desert-lost aches for water. The God of her 
understanding flayed his erring children just 
this way. It was right. Like so many good 
women whom the devil has never favored with 
a temptation, there was a trinity in her soul 
composed of Jesuit, Puritan, and the Mosaic 
Law. These three made a ring-a-rosy around 
Nora Dakon and found her abasement sweet. 

“Ph’fF!” said Miss Dakon, one morning 
at breakfast, her face hidden by the news- 
paper. “ Eight in the party, and most of 
them disreputable.” 

Something in the tone made Nora listen for 
the next words. 

“ I should think they would like the East. 
Cairo, nautch-dancers, pagan temples, ought 
to suit that crew exactly. I wonder why the 
St. Leger creature was left out? ” 

“ Let me see — who — what — ” Nora fal- 
tered. 

“ Why, don’t you know? I thought Law- 
rence Brundage was such a friend of yours. 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


He’s taking a lot of his set away for a cruise 
on The Sea-Bird . They’re to be gone all win- 
ter. Left yesterday.” 

Nora reached her room. She stared at her- 
self in the glass. The panic one sees in the 
face of a lost child was written there. It 
seemed wonderful to her that she was not 
dead. She had heard these words and had 
not fallen or cried out. She could still live 
and breathe and think, while life was oyer. 
During two hours alone in her room she tried 
to understand really that Lawrence was gone. 
Gone! That meant that she was alone, for- 
saken, flung aside. She beat her hand against 
her mouth and paced the floor. Her brain 
felt strange. The truth slipped away, and 
she found herself thinking of the day in the 
wood, when he had kissed and comforted her 
and they had talked of their life together. 
She thought of the hot, dusty road where she 
had stood to wave good-by to him, and she 
knew that every one was deceived but her, that 
Lawrence was not gone. No, no — it was a 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


ruse to cheat the world, but principally to 
cheat Miss Dakon. . . . 

“ Here’s a letter for you. A man brought 
it, and wants your receipt for it,” said Miss 
Dakon, whose knock she had not heard. 
“What’s the matter with you? ” she shrieked 
after the first glance at her. “You look awful. 
You’ve got a chill. You’re shaking. You’re 
like a sheet. I’ll get you something.” 

Nora shut the door after her and opened 
Lawrence’s letter as well as she could. Her 
mouth and hands moved convulsively. The 
contents were not lengthy, and were to the 
effect that she must forget him. He was not 
worthy of her love; he was selfish, and she 
must forget him. It hurt him to do this, but 
Tony’s death had made a difference — and 
didn’t she understand? But he would be her 
friend as long as he lived. There were several 
paragraphs devoted to a description of this 
friendship. As practical proof of it, he would 
rescue her from the ugly trials of poverty. 
He wanted her to be comfortable and happy. 

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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


He had instructed his lawyers to set aside a 
sum which would allow her, in quarterly pay- 
ments, fifteen thousand dollars a year as long 
as she lived, the principal, on her death, to go 
to her daughter. 

Nora flung the letter into her trunk, locked 
it, and had sufficient self-control to hide the 
key in a vase just before Miss Dakon came 
back with whisky, a servant following with 
several blankets. 

“ Drink it! You look awful! I’ve sent for 
the doctor! You’re like ice!” Miss Dakon’s 
hard voice ran on in rasping exclamations. 

Nora subsided, allowed herself to be un- 
dressed like a baby and put to bed. Under 
the heap of blankets she shivered like a sick 
animal in a storm. Before fever folded her 
in flame, some conclusions punctured the maze 
of agonizing thought where she wandered like 
a thing astray. She would take Lawrence 
Brundage’s money and go to Paris with 
Ruth. ... It was not a fine thing to 
do, but it was her only hope. . . . The 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


money — Paris — Ruth — far away from Miss 
Dakon. . . . 

She turned on her pillow and fancied that 
Lawrence stood beside the bed, smiling at her. 
No, it was a lie. He was happy, gone, and 
she was here, dying, but hating him. Yes, she 
hated him. She felt a desire to hurt, to kill 
him. She wished that the yacht and all on 
board might sink. She was blind and deaf 
with rage, and, in a paroxysm of hatred, she 
slipped into delirium. 


95 


CHAPTER IX 


Three days before Christmas Miss Dakon 
stood before her mirror, fastening a mourning 
brooch in her crepe collar. Her lips were set; 
their pale color-line had quite disappeared. 
She looked grim, as she always did when fa- 
cing her duty. 

“ Come,” she snapped when there was a 
knock at the door. 

A middle-aged maid who had been long in 
her employ stepped in. 

“ The room is all ready for Mrs. Dakon, but 
I’m afraid — ” and she paused doubtfully. 

“ What about? ” 

“ I’m afraid, Miss Dakon, it’ll be awful 
cold. It’s too bad the heat don’t go up there, 
an’ maybe the flue’d smoke if we tried a fire.” 

“Nonsense! No fire is necessary. The 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


door can be left open, and the heat from the 
hall will be quite enough.” 

“ But coming from the South, an’ Mrs. 
Dakon something of an invalid? ” Ellen held 
up a hot-water bottle ; “ I’ll have this good and 
hot for her, anyway, between the sheets.” 

“ Oh, very well,” said Miss Dakon in a tone 
of dismissal. 

When Ellen was gone she stood frowning 
as she arranged her skirt. She was thinking 
that she was glad she had never coddled her- 
self. Ellen’s indulgent, motherly attitude to- 
ward Mrs. Dakon was quite different from her 
own. She had asked her to spend Christmas 
with her, not because she liked her, but because 
she had something very definite to say to her, 
and something very unpleasant to suggest. 
In her way she was rather enjoying herself. 

Nora arrived shortly before six. At a 
glance Miss Dakon saw things that irritated 
her: she was well, and in good spirits; “the 
vials of wrath ” consistent with Miss Dakon’s 
creed had not been poured upon her auda- 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


ciously poised head, or the head had not been 
aware of them. She had almost regained her 
beauty ; her thinness had merged into a slender 
smoothness of outline, and in her clinging, 
black clothes she moved with a rippling grace. 
The wan stare that had been in her eyes 
during her convalescence, and before she left 
for North Carolina, was gone, and in its place 
were the smiling obstinacy, the masked re- 
sentment that Miss Dakon knew well. 

“ You’ve brought no trunks,” said Miss 
Dakon as the cabman handed in only a large 
dressing-bag with mountings of dull silver. 

“ No,” said Nora; “ I thought I’d leave my 
trunks at the station. You see, I have three.” 

She trailed her soft, chiffon-trimmed skirts 
into the drawing-room and tried to loll in the 
stiff sofa as she pulled off her long gloves 
with an air of fatigue. She was so exquisite, 
her travel-weariness suggested a soiled, thirsty 
flower. Miss Dakon in harsh crepe and rigid 
cashmere sat opposite her. 

“ I asked you for the holidays, and you come 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


with your bag,” Miss Dakon said in a flat, 
attenuated voice. 

“ But I felt you’d been too impulsive, Aunt 
Abby,” Nora sighed. 4 4 Let’s have a good, 
long talk, and after that we’ll know just what 
we want to do — won’t we? ” 

44 Are you hungry? ” Miss Dakon de- 
manded in a tone that was like a call to arms. 

44 Frightfully. I’ll have some Scotch and 
soda, too,” said Nora, standing up; 44 that sets 
me up wonderfully.” 

44 Scotch? Not — whisky? ” 

44 Every one is drinking it now.” 

44 1 don’t. I have nothing of the sort in the 
house,” and Miss Dakon rose too. 

Nora brightened. 44 1 remembered that, and 
I’ve a flask with me,” she said consolingly; 
44 I’ll go up now. Oh, here’s Ellen.” She 
greeted the maid with genuine warmth, and 
the woman’s plain, kind face beamed. 44 Come 
up, like a good soul,” she said, moving to the 
stairs, 44 and button me up the back. Maybe 
you could give my hair about twenty strokes, 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 

toa I’m dead beat, and I’m going to bye-bye 
early.” 

Miss Dakon remained standing in the prim 
drawing-room, boiling with resentment behind 
her gray face and grim lips. The hatred she 
felt for Nora was temperamental. In every- 
thing, at every turn, Anthony’s widow of- 
fended her. Her beauty, of the provocative, 
coquettish type, was irritating; her indifferent 
manner and babyish slang she thought vulgar ; 
her mourning-clothes, fashioned after pro- 
gressive ideals, so unlike the five-yard hard 
crepe veil in which she encased herself, and the 
armor of seamed, lusterless stuff behind which 
her own heart beat, she thought sacrilegious. 

But she had to be silent that night. Nora 
was not in a mood for discussion. She would 
not talk of personal things, but rattled on 
about the Southern resort she had come from 
and the people she had met there. Further- 
more, while she talked she sipped from a tall 
glass full of whisky and bubbling soda. 

In the morning, as Nora came shivering 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


from her bath, she met Ellen in the hall. In- 
stead of going down to hominy, baked apples, 
and coffee, she had Ellen fetch her up some 
orange- juice, hot buttered toast, a pitcher of 
creamy, boiling chocolate, and an egg frizzled 
with a bit of crisp, hot bacon. 

“You see,” Mrs. Dakon said with her 
pleading stare, “ IVe got to fatten up a bit 
more, Ellen. My throat’s a bit off for these 
collarless frocks they’re wearing now.” 

She enjoyed the breakfast cuddled up in the 
bedclothes, a velvet dressing-gown and an 
eiderdown quilt both around her shoulders. 
Her fingers were a bluish pink from cold as 
she turned the pages of La Fille auoc Trois 
Jupons , but otherwise she was enjoying her- 
self with the unholy joy of the insurrectionist. 
She felt that if she did not go down, Miss 
Dakon, following Mahomet’s wisdom about 
the mountain, would come to her, and she was 
right. At noon Miss Dakon ascended, en- 
tered, and sat down. 

“ Oh, do put something around you, Aunt 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


Abby,” Nora cooed from the heap of clothes; 
“ you’ll freeze here.” 

“ I never feel the cold,” Miss Dakon as- 
serted; “ at least I like it. It’s healthful and 
hardening.” 

“ Well, that may be, but it is not becom- 
ing,” and Nora stared with an apparently 
innocent fixity at Miss Dakon’s pink-purple 
nose. 

Miss Dakon hesitated before plunging into 
the matter that agitated her. 

“Am I interrupting your reading? ” 

“ Oh, not a bit. This is a French book. I’m 
really reading it as part of my study. It’s 
quite deliciously piquant and daring. I can’t 
make out all the words, and I get horribly 
afraid I’m missing something delightfully 
awful. One might as well study a language 
agreeably — mightn’t one? ” 

Miss Dakon, with an inward shudder of dis- 
taste, passed to the main point. 

“Are you studying French for any particu- 
lar reason? ” 


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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


Nora put the book face down on the bed 
and clasped her fingers. The battle was to 
begin. 

“I’m brushing up what I learned at school, 
to know as much as I can before going to 
Paris. You see, Aunt Abby, that’s where I’m 
to live.” 

“ Paris? ” Miss Dakon narrowed her eyes, 
and paused. “ Who’s there that you could 
find a home with? ” 

“I’ll make my own home.” 

“ Then you intend doing something to earn 
a living, of course. It seems to me infinitely 
more dignified for you to remain in New 
York, where you can have a shelter with me, 
and Ruth can be kept at school. In that way 
you could manage to buy what you both 
needed on the interest of your seventeeen 
thousand dollars.” 

Nora sighed sweetly. “ Thank you for of- 
fering me a shelter, Aunt Abby, but I don’t 
need it, and I’ve always longed to live in 
Paris.” 


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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


“ But — can you? ” Miss Dakon said, the 
question an invisible arrow. 

“ Oh, yes.” 

“And Ruth’s schooling?” 

“ I’ll put her in the sweetest convent there. 
I think it’s called Les Blanches Soeurs — the 
sweetest garden around it ” 

“ Convent? ” 

“And I’ve a scheme for Ruth’s future. 
She’s always had high marks in drawing, but 
lately her teacher has written me seriously 
about her genius for it — real genius. Paris 
is the place for an artist, and when she’s a little 
older Ruth shall go to one of those darling 
ateliers — just like Marie Bashkirtseff — and 
make sketches from models and things, if she 
wants to. She wrote me that she danced for 
joy when I told her this — the darling thing! ” 
Nora twirled the pages of La Fille auoc Trois 
Jupons, and waited. 

“ But how can you afford to do all this 
without earning money yourself some way? ” 

“ Oh, I can. You see, Aunt Abby, I — I’m 
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not depending on the life-insurance money 
altogether.” 

“No? ” The word was a stifled snort; Miss 
Dakon’s eyes began to gleam. 

“I’ve been most fortunate in — specula- 
tion,” said Nora, turning on her arm and 
looking past Miss Dakon’s head. “A friend 
gave me such good advice about stocks — 
and things like that — and bought some for 
me.” 

“ Bought — what? ” 

“ Shares,” said Nora vaguely. 

“ Shares in what? ” 

“ That’s all I know — shares in something,” 
said Nora, annoyed to feel her face color. 

Unbelief and condemnation flared in Miss 
Dakon’s gaze. 

“ Shares in some mine — Mexico, prob- 
ably? ” 

“ Yes, I remember now, it was a mine,” 
Nora murmured brightly. 

“ Name unknown, I suppose? ” 

Nora moved pettishly. “ I left all those 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 

details to — to the broker. I couldn’t be 
bothered.” 

“ H’m.” Miss Dakon leaned forward, her 
palms on her knees. “ I’ve heard of some 
women making sudden fortunes by specula- 
tions, always vague . But men? — well, men 
are rarely so fortunate.” 

“ Then I’m even more lucky than I 
thought,” said Nora, as she slid out of bed 
and tied the somber tassels of the velvet gown 
about her; “ I think I’ll dress, and go for a 
walk, Aunt Abby.” She was a little pale as 
she looked Miss Dakon squarely in the face; 
“ that is, if we’ve finished our talk.” 

There was so much that Miss Dakon was 
trying to keep from saying, she mouthed nerv- 
ously, and the flaming malice of her eyes in 
her lined face was an ugly sight. 

“ I do want to ask, in fact, to insist, as 
an elder woman and a relative, on one thing,” 
she said, rising too. Standing so, she seemed 
a composition of buckram and ice- water. 
“ Ruth is Anthony’s child. For his sake I’d 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


like to look after her future, to educate her 
according to dignified and suitable methods.” 

“Poor Ruth!” was Nora’s inward ex- 
clamation. 

“ I would take all the responsibility. At 
my death she’d have about forty thousand dol- 
lars, well invested. I’ve saved that from my 
income.” 

Nora had her hands on her hips, her shoul- 
ders bent intensely forward, as she spoke: 

“ You say she’s Anthony’s child. She is 
my child, Miss Dakon.” 

“ You may find her a burden in Paris. It 
seems to me you’d be more comfortably ar- 
ranged, from your point of view, without 
her,” came in a small voice from Miss Dakon’s 
almost shut lips. 

“And it seems to me you are interfering 
in my affairs in a very impertinent manner.” 

“ My duty ” 

“ 4 Your duty! ’ How I’ve learned to hate 
that word because of you. You always call 
doing something hateful or disagreeable your 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


duty.” She went to the window; “ I think 
you’d better leave me to myself. I’m afraid 
we’ll quarrel. I don’t know why you asked 
me to come here just to make me uncom- 
fortable.” 

There was a short silence. Without turn- 
ing, she heard Miss Dakon say in a new, 
sneering tone of controlled fury: 

“ That’s the dread of women like you — any- 
thing except to be uncomfortable. And it is 
to escape being uncomfortable you’re to buy 
luxury with Brundage’s money.” 

Nora turned then, trembling, and as white 
as milk. 

“ When you were ill, his lawyer came here ; 
I saw him, and though he was very cautious, 
by a chance word he betrayed that there was 
some sort of money arrangement between you 
and — that man.” All the secret venom of 
Miss Dakon’s nature was in her gleaming 
eyes and twitching face. “ You see, I know,” 
she said, a suggestion of palsy in her excitably 
moving body, “ and I know more than that. 

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I know that Anthony discovered — something 
—and killed himself because of it. I know 
you’re not fit to bring up your daughter. I 
shudder to think of her in the charge of a 
woman like you. What will become of her? 
I could tear her from you! She's a Dakon. 
You’re a stranger.” 

With these words Miss Dakon flew in a 
whirl of black, rattling skirts from the room, 
leaving Nora blanched, speechless, her mouth 
opened like the letter O. For a full three 
minutes she stood rigid. As an hysterical 
whimper ran through her, her eyes fell on an 
illuminated High-Church calendar on the wall 
over the spot where Miss Dakon had stood. 
She saw these words: 

“ What doth the Lord require of thee, but 
to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk 
humbly with thy God? ” 

She swept it from its hook, and tore it to 
bits, sobbing as she did so. 

“ I hate her! I would hate all Christians, 
if they were like her.” 

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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 

That afternoon Nora drove to the Waldorf. 
Her trunks were already there, her room hav- 
ing been engaged before she went to Miss 
Dakon’s. 

After a warm bath and a light dinner she 
tried some cold-cream she had heard enthusi- 
astically recommended, and went to bed early. 
She had the aptitude of putting unpleasant 
things away from her. Miss Dakon already 
belonged to her past. 


110 


CHAPTER X 


Nora was by nature one of those people 
fitted to love Paris — that is, to love certain 
complexions of it. Its art life, that most en- 
chanting phase of it wherein workers drink 
deep of creative ecstasy, was of course a sealed 
book to her. But she loved its brightness and 
fluttering life; the trees budding everywhere, 
making the streets aisles of twinkling green; 
the flash and dash of its many fountains; the 
whiteness of its sculpture against tender skies ; 
its outdoor life, where people ate and drank 
at tables on the very streets among passers-by, 
all like children in a big, bright nursery; the 
thistledown soul of things, its gay air and 
constant laughter. All this made her continu- 
ously cheerful. 


Ill 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


She had a passion for clothes, and Paris is 
a temptress who creates appetite. During the 
first years there Nora knew the rapture of new 
birth as she was evolved into a woman of 
fashion under the most entrancing conditions. 
The confirming touch which exquisite gown- 
ing gave to her beauty dizzied her with a self- 
intoxication more satisfying in its way, and 
decidedly more lasting, than any romance she 
had known. Then, too, the cosmopolitanism 
of Paris gave her new ambitions about social 
position. She touched, in passing, counts and 
countesses, even a prince or two, and all found 
her charming. 

Her first years were nomadic. She went 
from big hotels like the Continental, fre- 
quented by tourists, to small, dainty ones, 
more French and valued by the initiated. 
After a course of these she took a furnished 
apartment, a season at a time, and became 
during the winters an absentee on the Riviera. 
But Paris at length becoming not only a 
haunting mood, but a part of herself, like hun- 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


ger and thirst, she settled definitely into a 
resident, sunk the roots of her life into it, 
and except for her English speech, used per- 
haps equally with French, she was a Parisi- 
enne. 

" Tout-a-fait Parisienne ” as modistes 
purred admiringly when poising the most 
chic of millinery creations upon her rippling 
hair. 

It was then that her ambition to found a 
salon flamed up. She rented a beautiful, 
bijou apartment on the Avenue Montaigne, 
furnished it delicately, luxuriously, and be- 
came what she considered a personage. Titles 
were called out on her Tuesdays, and her 
rooms often looked like a miniature Vernis- 
sage so exquisite were the fabrics trailed 
there, so ornamental the idlers who tinkled her 
cups. Many of the titles were questionable; 
a goodly percentage of her visitors were of the 
sort whose histories bear only twilight inspec- 
tion, and become blotted scrawls in the light 
of day ; there were hangers-on of various 
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sorts, mostly with dazzling expectations for 
the future and no present to speak of; and 
with this false glitter there was some gold; 
with all the affectation, pretense, and de- 
cadence, some honesty and genuine devo- 
tion. 

While her mother was passing through 
these phases, Ruth was inconspicuous. From 
the point of view of her elders, she was merely 
“ growing up.” She was being fed, clothed, 
educated, trained, and kept healthy. Her 
frocks were merely coverings, her boots things 
to walk in, her face something to be washed, 
and her hair fulfilled all that was expected of 
it when it lay in a sleek plait down her back. 
Her opinions were of no importance to her 
mother, heard for the most part with an 
amiable, unlistening smile. She had been a 
pretty child. She became a bony, pale, gaunt- 
faced girl of fifteen, so that once during holi- 
days at home her long face had irritated her 
mother. 

“ I wonder,” she said dreamily, as they were 
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TIME 3 THE COMEDIAN 


driving one day, “ if you’re going to look like 
a horse always.” 

She forgot this almost immediately after 
saying it, but Ruth wept that night because 
she was so ugly. She who loved beauty looked 
“ like a horse.” 

However uninteresting her years at the con- 
vent were to men and women, they had been 
important to her. Outwardly she was the 
demure, obedient schoolgirl, but her com- 
panions knew her differently. They knew of 
romantic friendships that were never to end, 
sealed at midnight in writing of real, red 
blood; they knew that Ruth loved Rochester, 
in “ Jane Eyre,” madly, and fairly sickened 
in her dreams to think that he was not really 
alive somewhere in the world, that she might 
perhaps meet him when she should walk no 
more, one of twenty, in the convent garden; 
they knew that she was one day to be a great 
artist, for she had confidently told them so, 
following the information with caricatures of 
people they knew, so uniquely characteristic 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


and droll that their secret distribution brought 
down a variety of punishments. 

At seventeen she was very pretty again, and 
the “ growing up ” only clung to her in frag- 
ments as the shell of the egg does to the 
feathered atom beginning to “ cheep ’’for it- 
self as an individual. She loved Paris as 
ardently as did Nora, but differently. It was 
the haunting, inspiring soul of art surging 
under the sea of frivolity like a passionate 
undercurrent, that drew her on. The city’s 
beauty on every side whispered of this fanatic 
apprenticeship to the creation of beauty. She 
lived in the thought of accomplishment, am- 
bition a fever; she was pale from her dreams, 
her eyes misty and exalted. 

“ If Ruth keeps on, she’ll be so pretty, she 
might marry — anything ” Mrs. Dakon often 
thought as Ruth approached twenty. 

During these days Ruth frequently stood 
in the Louvre, gazing at Vandyke’s Charles I. 
The sad face with the predestination of doom 
in the eyes reminded her of her father. 

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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


“ Oh, if some day I could make a heart beat 
on canvas that way! ” she would think, her own 
heart aching with a sad rapture like that born 
of Chopin’s music and the perfume of the 
camellia. 


117 


CHAPTER XI 


The students at Dubose’s were making 
ready to leave for the day. Canvases were 
draped, brushes were being wiped. There was 
a tearing off of blouses, a hurried tidying of 
hair, an attempt to get paint-stained fingers 
into gloves. The light was almost gone from 
the north windows and big skylight. The 
room was gray, the bustling figures spectral. 
Matches crackled and cigarettes flamed in the 
dusk like fireflies. 

“Coming, Ruth?” a big English girl 
asked, peering between the easels in a near- 
sighted way. “ Where’s she gone? That 
girl’s like nothing human — the way she can 
bolt.” 

“ She’s over there, Babe, taking a last look 
at her old woman,” said a man’s voice. 

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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


Babe, named so in the studio because she 
was so ponderous, turned in her ample way 
and saw a young man sitting near the door. 
He was smoking, and both elbows were on his 
knees in an attitude of fixed patience. 

“ I might have known you were somewhere 
near,” she laughed. “ But I wouldn’t wait, 
Cautley, if I were you. I’ve something I 
want to talk to Ruth about most particu- 
larly.” 

“ My case exactly.” He stood up and faced 
her squarely. “ Go away, Babe, like a good 
chap. I’m going to give Ruth another chance 
to refuse me. If she says ‘ No ’ again, I’ll 
fold up my tent and silently steal away. Do 
take yourself off. It would cramp my style 
to have you about.” The words were flippant, 
the voice miserable ; his young face, dimly out- 
lined in the thickening shadows, a very un- 
happy and defiant one. 

“ You’re an idiot! Why don’t you give up 
gracefully? Ruth will never marry you. 
She’s in love now.” 


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TIME THE COMEDIAN 


“ Then tell me his name.” He caught her 
wrist. “ Don’t go, Babe. His name! ” 

“ His name is Art. Sometimes she calls 
him very tenderly her Career. You can’t cut 
Art out, Tom. Well, here she comes, and I’ll 
go.” 

Ruth came from between the easels, pinning 
on her hat as she walked. She looked under 
her lashes at Cautley and handed him her 
gloves. 

“ I didn’t know you were waiting,” she 
said carelessly, adding, with a little sigh : 
“I’ve been breaking my heart over my old 
woman’s face — haven’t got that strange smile 
among the wrinkles a bit. It’s getting dark, 
but I want to walk home.” 

He followed her to the narrow street where 
the omnibuses thundered and the people 
surged by, not discriminating between drive- 
way and pavements. There was a touching 
look of humility, happiness, and anxiety in 
his strong, blond face. This contrasted with 
Ruth’s. There was no sentiment in her shining 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


eyes, and her oddly curved brow was puck- 
ered prettily as she drew on her gloves. 

She was now the Ruth of Bate’s Crossing, 
grown large. In the passage of these twelve 
years, her face had not lost its most striking 
childish characteristics. Her brown hair was 
still parted in two straight, lustrous bands 
with soft, escaping tendrils around the ears, 
the difference being that under her hat it 
showed in a soft knot instead of a plait; her 
lashes flickered in the old way as she glanced 
about; her mouth quivered in fascinating 
mobility; her eyes had the green and topaz 
lights, but more vivid; the odd dimple made 
ghostlike appearances in her cheek even as she 
talked unsmilingly. She was slender, and of 
a graceful middle height. 

Ruth was not a beauty after accepted 
canons. There were a few girls in the studio 
with features and coloring beside whom she 
was like a study in gray or brown. But she 
was the power, the magnet, nevertheless. Her 
face had the charm that no string of words, 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


however exact, can describe. She was high- 
spirited, sympathetic, daring, unconventional, 
sincere. She could blaze into a splendid tem- 
per; she could be gentle as a Madonna. She 
gave the impression, as one knew her, of being 
able to walk through pitch, of even analyzing 
it, without it staining her. She knew much, 
from observation, about the “ sad earth ” and 
men and women, for her eyes and brain were 
comprehensive; but she had big understand- 
ing, toleration and pity for it all. Her per- 
sonality was puzzling, her smile most en- 
dearing. There was an irritating, delightful 
quality in her, the wildness and inconsequence 
of a fay. 

“ Hurry, Tom,” she said, lifting her face 
to the April dusk. “ I want to cross the Seine 
before the grayness is gone. Oh, Tom, 
mustn’t it be frightful to be blind?” She 
gave a quick shiver and looked up at him. 
“To miss all this — this misty street with the 
kiosks flaming, and the lights in the shops 
making the windows like jewels in the dusk 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


— and that girl coming demurely from her 
confirmation, and that soldier talking to his 
old mother. Tom, let’s say, ‘ Thank God for 
sight! ’ Oh, it is so good.” 

Tom looked at her steadily, gravely. The 
tenderness and fire in his eyes made her look 
away. 

“ Thank God for sight this moment more 
than all others,” he said fervently, and added 
in a breath, “ Oh, Ruth! ” 

She flicked the seriousness from her with an 
impatient movement of her head, and laughed. 

“ I might have known. Your persist- 
ence ” 

“ No, it’s despair. Ruth ” 

“ Please don’t spoil our walk,” she inter- 
rupted, with a flash of temper, and almost ran 
beside the book-stalls on the parapets along 
the Quai Voltaire till the Pont du Carrousel 
was reached. “ Look,” she said, and, leaning 
on the railing, drew in the details of the mov- 
ing picture. 

A greenish sky fading into purple showed 
9 123 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


through the mists. Paris to the right was a 
thing of mystery, budding trees, flickering 
lights. Over the bridges the crowds moved 
without pause. Along the lapping Seine the 
brightly lit barges came puffing, and passed 
under the arches. 

Dreaming, like a bright mask, settled on 
Ruth’s face. Her eyes were inspired. She 
slipped away on the magic of her thoughts, 
and when Tom touched her arm she looked 
at him, startled. When she spoke, she an- 
swered the love in his brown eyes that were like 
the patient, affectionate eyes of a dog. 

“ Tom, dear,” she said, very gently, and 
looked away from him, “ I know all you want 
to say; but it isn’t any use. That way I don’t 
care for you at all. Love seems like insanity, 
or some other amazing thing, and I never 
think of it as happening to me.” 

“ You seem to know your own mind,” he 
said miserably. 

“ To think,” she said, “ that I’m making 
you suffer because I’m honest with you. I’m 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 

so sorry for that, I’ve a pain in my heart, 
Tom.” 

“You like me, but you never can love me. 
I’d rather you hated me. There might be some 
chance then,” he burst out. 

They walked on, and Ruth did not speak 
again till they had crossed the bridge and 
reached the arches of the Rue de Rivoli. 

“ Then the fact that you are my dearest 
friend doesn’t count? ” 

“ Oh, yes, but it’s a savorless thing com- 
pared to love. Friendship doesn’t feed a heart 
that’s hungry for love. All the fine phrases 
in the world couldn’t do that, not all the intel- 
lectual sympathy. But just one touch could, 
just one look. It seems to me I’d be glad to 
die to-morrow if you could look at me and 
touch me that way,” he said brokenly. 

Ruth grew thoughtful and a shadow fell on 
her eyes. To feel for a human being what 
Tom felt for her was a terrible thing. What 
power it gave the one who was loved, a power 
often not valued and without charm. Tom’s 


125 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


very life was in her indifferent hand. He was 
not master of himself. The thought of her 
dominated him. Independence and self -con- 
tent were shriveled in the fires of such love. 
It was a mystery to her, but to realize that it 
could ever bring such unrest into a life made 
her vaguely afraid. 

She became silent again till the Rond Point 
was reached, and they turned down the Ave- 
nue Montaigne. Her home was there, only 
a stone’s throw from the fountains splashing 
over the beds of yellow tulips. The avenue 
was dark and deserted under the close lines of 
blooming horse-chestnut trees. 

“ Look here, Tom,” and Ruth came to a 
standstill where the shadows were massed, and 
laid her hand on his arm. “ I want you to 
know just how I care for you. When I’m 
with you, I’m happy. You and I understand 
each other. We both look at life with the 
artist’s eyes and mind — and, oh, how much 
this is! I’d miss you terribly if you left Paris, 
Tom. You’re my truest friend, my very dear- 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


est companion. Now, I love Noddy — oh, I 
love her so! — but we’re like people talking a 
different language. She doesn’t care for what 
I like. I’d go crazy if I had to lead the life 
she does. Now, it seems to me that if I should 
ever meet any one I could love better than my 
mother, and who understands me as you do, 
I’d be in love. But maybe that never can be. 
Meanwhile, Tom, don’t leave me. You mean 
a lot to me. I know you’ve been talking of 
going home to New York, and Joe Berardy 
said you’d surely go soon, as your uncle was 
dead and his fortune was yours. But I can’t 
spare you. Tom, dear Tom, stay in Paris.” 

He folded his hand over hers and gave her 
a last long look of passionate love before he 
tried to summon to his eyes the good fellow- 
ship she craved. 

“ Ruth, if you want me, for any reason, 
nothing in the world can make me go away.” 

She pressed his arm and flung her head up 
happily. 

“ Let’s go to Suresnes to-morrow, sketch 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


all the morning, and have one of old Mar- 
got’s breakfasts — bread and butter, radishes, 
creamy cheese, salad, frizzled eggs, red wine. 
You see, I expect you to bring an appetite 
with you.” 

“At nine? ” he asked humbly, as they paused 
before the courtyard of a splendid apartment 
house. “All right. But sha’n’t I see you 
to-night? ” 

“ Not to-night,” she said in amazement, a 
provoking smile following. “ Professor Gun- 
ning is going to play his latest arias to-night. 
You know he admits only Noddy and me.” 

He watched her as she went up the inner 
steps to the big glass doors which a concierge 
swung open for her, saw her pass along by 
the big, potted plants, up the white marble 
stairs and beyond his longing eyes. 


128 


CHAPTER XII 


Perfume and silence hung like a Presence 
over the apartment au deuocieme which Ruth 
entered. One look, and the observant would 
know that this was the home of a luxurious 
woman, one that liked to see reflections of 
herself, so, presumably, a pretty woman. 

A blond boy, with the freshness of Gascony 
still in his pink cheeks, who visibly exulted in 
his brown livery with silver buttons, admitted 
Ruth into a dimly lit hall furnished with tapes- 
tries and divans. She passed into the salon be- 
yond, and, taking off her sailor hat, sat in 
the reclining-chair by the window where she 
could see the moon rising over the dormer 
roofs of the big white houses opposite. 

The salon was of polished white wood. Odd 
doors, cutting it in half, had small square mir- 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


rors let in, giving the effect of big small-paned 
windows within the room. Rose silk and 
creamy net were at the long casements leading 
to an iron balcony. 

This balcony was like an outer room, a 
boudoir al fresco. Growing flowers swayed 
against the railings, rugs and low cane chairs 
furnished it; a striped awning flapped over it. 

In the salon there were queer long-necked 
vases filled with great bunches of cherry blos- 
soms and lilacs. It was spring indoors and 
out. 

To Ruth’s inquiries, Etienne, the Gascon 
boy, replied that madame was not yet home 
from the Bois; that madame had gone driving 
with the American lady who dined with them 
last night; that madame had said, if she did 
not return for dinner, mademoiselle was not 
to wait, but to have her dinner at the usual time. 

Ruth dismissed him with a nod. She was 
accustomed to her mother’s whimsical engage- 
ments. In a moment the matter was forgotten, 
even the room she sat in slipped from her con- 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


scious sight, and no memory of Tom Cautley’s 
pain and prayer remained with her. Ruth was 
bond-slave to one thing only — a sexless exalta- 
tion before the white fire of art, whose radiance 
unrolled within the soul one wide horizon after 
another. It was a rapture with nothing ma- 
terial in it. One whose feet were poorly shod, 
whose body was poorly nourished, could buoy- 
antly journey toward those horizons, and, even 
if the glory always receded and shadow always 
stayed, there was the joy of the quest. 

The canvas she had toiled over that day, not 
knowing how the hours were hurrying by till 
darkness had made her put away her brushes, 
engrossed her dreaming now. How to get the 
smile among the wrinkles, while the aged 
mouth of the old model was set in tight fur- 
rows and the eyes were quiet? 

4 4 It’s her happy soul shining through the 
flesh. The soul does not age. Her body is 
the battered envelope which holds it, but the 
soul stays young, so that when she dies it could 
go with fitness into a newly born babe. That’s 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


it, that shine of the young soul through the 
wrinkled flesh. Oh! if I can get it — I feel it 
so. I will — I will.” She sighed and clasped 
her hands behind her head. 

Etienne was moving about in the dining- 
room. The chink of glass made her aware at 
length that it was time to change for dinner. 
The ghosts of paint-stains still clung to her 
fingers. She realized, too, that she had had 
only an apple and a baba for lunch, and that 
Etienne’s salads were things to dream of. 

Before going to her room she paused at the 
door of the salle a manger . 

“ Go up to Professor Gunning’s, Etienne, 
and ask him to dine with me. I hear him play- 
ing. Tell him I’m alone, and he must come.” 

When she came into the salon, half an hour 
later, in a faint mauve gown with a fall of 
chiffon around the shoulders, the professor 
was there, looking over a magazine. 

“And you didn’t disdain my invitation,” 
said Ruth gaily, “ though the queen is absent. 
Nice man.” 


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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


The professor flung back his gray head and 
showed a humorous, Irish face, where woe and 
wrath struggled for the mastery. 

“ The queen, is it? It’s little she thinks of 
me, me dear. I’m no more than the black rib- 
bon on her little shoe.” 

He sighed, pressed Ruth’s hand, and kissed 
it with the stateliness fashionable in the ’50s. 

“ Noddy thinks a lot of the ribbon on her 
shoe,” Ruth smiled. “ She spends a lot of 
time tying it and making it into a saucy bow, 
and pats it very gently when it’s done; so 
you’re not so badly off, are you? ” 

“Ah, Ruth, me dear, laugh at me, if you will. 
But may you never play ducks and drakes 
with any poor divil’s heart as your lovely 
mama does with mine. It’s hideous cruel 
of her.” 

“ What’s the matter now, professor? ” 

“ She was to go with me to the Salon yester- 
day, and along comes this new-found friend, 
this Mrs. St. Leger, and she throws me over 
for her — pif ! — sans ceremonie. I was to play 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


her me new aria to-night, and all I get is a 
petit bleu from the Hotel Ritz, saying: 
4 Sorry! I won’t be home to-night. Off to 
see Granier with Mrs. St. Leger.’ Who is 
this American, anyway? ” he demanded, paus- 
ing in his walk. 

“ Noddy knew her a long time ago in New 
York. They met in a bonnet shop in the Rue 
Caumartin yesterday morning.” 

“Ah, that’s it, is it? ” he said discontentedly. 
“ I’ll wager they’re talking hats at this mo- 
ment, instead of being here to listen to my 
new sextet.” 

He was a good-looking Irishman of sixty, 
though he admitted with unwinking, blue-eyed 
candor to being forty-nine. He had lived in 
Paris for sixteen years, and spoke French with 
a creamy brogue and the English of Dublin 
with a French accent, carefully acquired. He 
lived luxuriously, kept a carriage, thought 
himself a great, unrecognized musician, and 
for six years had been an unrequited, servile 
worshiper of Mrs. Dakon’s. 

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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


To that inconsequent little fashion-plate he 
was necessary in a way. Other admirers might 
waver and depart. The flame of his worship 
to her beauty was always trimmed and burn- 
ing. At odd times, when more attractive men 
were for various reasons unavailable, the pro- 
fessor could be relied on as an escort. He 
never forgot the /^e-days, nor birthdays; se- 
lected excellent gifts and offered them roman- 
tically; was always at a train to say good-by 
when Mrs. Dakon was leaving for Trouville, 
Ostend, or Monte Carlo, and the first to bid 
her welcome home among flowers purchased 
lavishly. 

The professor was a home comfort. Mrs. 
Dakon would have missed him from her life, 
much as she would have missed Sylvie, the 
cook, who made excellent sauces, had no fol- 
lowers, and was satisfied with small commis- 
sions on the marketing. 

The professor was, figuratively, under her 
little French heel, and all he asked was a smile, 
a kind word, a seat at dinner occasionally, a 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


listening ear when he played — ^11 things that 
cost nothing in the coin of the realm. 

While Ruth was dining with him and listen- 
ing to a potpourri made up of her mother’s 
fascinations, his faith in his own genius, and 
kindly gossip about every one they knew, Mrs. 
Dakon was dining at the Hotel Ritz. 

Life seemed good unto her. Mrs. St. Leger 
had told her she was a marvel. 

“ Prettier, my dear, than you were twelve 
years ago. Different, but prettier, and with 
the country rawness gone. Yofr are a fascina- 
ting Parisienne. There’s finish to you, a per- 
fection that is tantalizing. Our women dress 
perfectly, but they cannot get the French flick 
— whatever it is. You have it. You dress like 
an American who buys her things on the Rue 
de la Paix, and with it you have the — flick,. 
When that’s said, all’s said.” 

A near-by mirror put a guarantee on these 
exclamations. Nora saw there a woman who 
might or might not be thirty, in a pale pink 
filmy gown where lace and chiff on were subtly 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


blent, a big, shepherdess hat of lace slashing 
her brows with shadow. Her gray eyes, that 
Mrs. St. Leger remembered as soft and ap- 
pealing in vacuous discontent, were now softer 
and more appealing from much practise before 
a mirror, for Nora knew her world well, and 
had fully digested the fact that it is the 
wisdom of the small woman to beseech, never 
to command. 

There is a delicately artificial style of beauty 
much in vogue in these days in Paris, perhaps 
the one place where women of all classes use 
cosmetics freely, as a matter of course. Nora 
had acquired the fashionable, Parisian com- 
plexion, a mystery to the most eager searcher 
after knowledge save to those who have it. 
It was composed of a blending of massage, 
ointments, bleaches, powders, and the result 
was a porcelain whiteness, not hard in tone, 
but unlike human flesh. Her lashes were deli- 
cately darkened, and gave her eyes a stereo- 
typed languor and mystery; her lips were 
touched with cerise, and her hair, from a nat- 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


ural blond, had become a beautiful silvery 
gold like the silk that wraps corn. 

Ruth often wondered just how much less 
pretty her mother would be if she could not 
afford a masseuse , and somebody pitched all 
her lotions into the Seine. She never saw 
her, even en neglige over cafe au lait, till skin, 
hair, and eyes were “ done ” for the day. 
When she was ill, the room was made black, 
and Ruth’s sympathies were expended on a 
shadow with tossed hair, whose nose was buried 
in the pillows. 

The years had had their way, however, with 
Mrs. St. Leger. She was one of these women 
who are either lazy or philosophical, or who 
possess so little vanity it does not seem worth 
while to fence with Time and keep his foil 
from touches that count. She had grown older 
as a man does, frankly, cheerfully, and 
neither a pepper-and-salt pompadour under 
her expensive hat, nor seams drawn taut over 
a fat back, spoiled her enjoyment of French 
sauces and champagne. 

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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


“Ever miss New York?” asked Mrs. St. 
Leger. 

“ I had little experience of New York, but 
I miss some things American,” said Nora. 
“ Do you know, there are times when I long 
for the American seasoning in food? The 
French only know how to make sauces. I long 
for our iced melons in summer, for our de- 
licious cotfee. Why is there no decent coffee 
to be had anywhere but in America and 
Vienna? ” 

“ Oh, now I do see a change in you — and for 
the worse,” Mrs. St. Leger laughed. “ When 
a man or woman gets fussy about food the 
glamour of life is going.” 

“ Oh, I miss other things,” Nora said hastily. 
“ I just spoke of those en passant. I miss our 
fast trains and Turkish baths, and our ador- 
able, luxurious bath-rooms which are found 
with the most modest flats. It’s a heavenly 
joy to keep oneself fit in America. Here 
and in Great Britain, and all over Europe, it’s 
such an effort, a disagreeable duty.” 

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10 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


“ Will you ever go back to America to live? ” 
“ Never. I couldn’t begin to live there, as 
I do here, on my income. Besides, I’d rather 
have Paris with its discomforts thrown in, than 
America with its luxury.” 

“You see lots of Americans, I suppose?” 
“ Not many. My friends are a cosmopoli- 
tan lot, a sprinkling of Americans, but no 
more than of other nationalities.” 

“ I wonder if you’d mind if I asked you 
one question,” Mrs. St. Leger burst out after 
some reflection. “ It’s been burning my 
tongue and I can’t keep it back. Have you 
ever seen Larry Brundage since — I mean, 
when did you last see him? ” 

Nora’s lashes flickered thoughtfully as she 
prodded a prawn with her fork. In a ghostly 
way a realization went over her coldly of how 
many years had gone since that past which 
was like another life. Lawrence had become 
but a name to her, his face dim, like that of 
one long dead, until yesterday, when she had 
come face to face with Mrs. St. Leger. 

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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


“ Let me see,” she murmured. “ Oh, it’s 
ages ago. If you live in Paris one full year 
nearly every one you ever knew will pass you 
somewhere or other. Since I’ve lived here I’ve 
caught sight of him twice, once about five 
years ago, and once about three years before 
that.” 

“You weren’t speaking to him?” 

“No. He was at the opera the first time. I 
don’t believe he saw me. The second time 
we were driving; it was showery — we passed 
rapidly.” She lifted her champagne- 

glass and drank with delicate enjoyment. 
“ I suppose you and he are close friends 
still? ” 

Mrs. St. Leger pursed up her lips. 

“ Whenever we run across each other. You 
know I’ve lived in England a lot; motoring 
on Surrey roads is quite as near as I want 
to come to Paradise. He’s lived — everywhere. 
I heard of him in Jerusalem last year — or was 
it Chile? I forget. You know Charlie Wix 
is dead. Amusing beggar he was. Since then 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


Larry hasn’t gone about with such a fast 
crowd.” 

“ Perhaps his health has pulled him up short. 
I thought him quite worn, and that was five 
years ago.” 

“ He’s not forty-four yet — young, as age 
goes in these days. He’s kept his hair ; he has 
a handsome, tanned face; and that figure of 
his is just the same. I shouldn’t wonder if 
he’d marry a debutante. When a man gets 
to his age, and is stupendously rich and a bach- 
elor, he either goes the pace till he’s quickly 
fit for nothing but a club window and a bottle 
of whisky, or he turns a moral somersault and 
goes back to first principles. Try some of this 
mushroom patty, my dear.” 

Nora scarcely heard the last words. 

“I’ve a curious feeling,” she said, looking 
frightened, though she laughed. “ Have you 
ever had it? Your flesh creeps slowly from 
head to foot and your breath seems to go. My 
old nigger mammy used to say it meant that 
some one was walking over your grave.” 

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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 

“ I get it when I think of my first/’ said 
Mrs. St. Leger. “ Perhaps talking of Larry 
has had that effect on you — like resurrecting 
a ghost, you know.” 

When they reached the V arietes , where Les 
Deuce E coles held the stage, the first act was 
almost over, and Jeanne Granier’s melodious 
contralto voice was uttering an exquisite cyni- 
cism on marriage. When the curtain fell, 
Nora moved back into the box to make some 
mysterious passes at her nose with a minute 
powder-puff taken from a gold box as large 
as a franc, which hung from her chatelaine. 
Mrs. St. Leger leaned over the rim and sur- 
veyed the men in the first stalls, who had risen 
and were now, after the French custom, loun- 
ging with their backs to the stage, giving their 
attention to the audience. 

4 4 My dear, there’s little Count de Cenantes. 
He sees me.” She nodded, and motioned with 
her fan. 44 He’s coming up. He’s most amu- 
sing. There’s some one with him. Yes, he’s 
fetching up the man with him. Who is he? — 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


it can’t be — yes. Come here, come here ! ” 
she called to Nora. “No — they’re gone.” 
Then she faced her squarely, and spoke 
with an important calm and emphasis. “ Now, 
whom do you suppose De Cenantes is bringing 
up here? ” 

The answer seemed to leave Nora’s lips 
automatically : 

“ Lawrence Brundage.” 

“ Did you see him? ” she exclaimed. 

“ No.” 

“ Well, don’t look frightened. But how did 
you know? ” 

Nora sat down weakly. 

“ I felt it.” 


144 




CHAPTER XIII 


Dissimulation is society’s most necessary 
lesson. Once acquired, it serves as an invisible 
armor. Two come face to face before others, 
and while eyes are guarded, murmur in level 
voices : “ So glad — pleasure — so unexpected ” 
— or something else equally flat. Nothing 
must tell that the last time they stood so, pas- 
sion, or grief, or tragedy clasped them about. 
The efF ort required is so vital it brings its own 
support. 

Nora, while she trembled, did not forget to 
smile lazily under her lashes. To Lawrence 
the meeting was uncomf ortable, though he was 
outwardly a model of polite, suave repose. 

Mrs. St. Leger flew to the rescue. She 
appropriated Lawrence, and left the count to 
Nora. 


145 


TIME ' THE COMEDIAN 


“What are you going to do? ” whispered 
Mrs. St. Leger while pretending to talk of 
some one below. 

“ Bolt as soon as I can,” he said. 

“ Isn’t she lovely? ” 

“ Lovely, but stereotyped. Every other 
woman at Armenonville or the races has that 
startlingly white skin. How do they do it? ” 

“ We can buy pallor in Paris,” said Mrs. St. 
Leger. 

Nora’s laugh had meanwhile become too 
frequent, and her eyes wandered stealthily to 
Lawrence. In a twinkling the content of her 
pampered life shriveled under the burning 
memories which raced before her mind. Fin- 
gers seemed stealing about her heart waking it 
to troubled sweetness. One look into Law- 
rence’s eyes, and she that had been as one dead 
in a sense was alive again. Similar thoughts 
to those which Tom’s infatuation for herself 
had inspired in Ruth came to her mother now, 
but she had her own heart under the lens. 

It was strange, it was terrible, that a trick 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


of expression, a voice, just the way the hair 
grew on a man’s head, his walk, or the bearing 
of his shoulders, could possess this magic, could 
send this eating pain into a heart. She tried 
to look at Lawrence critically. She had known 
other men as good in their way to look at, at- 
tractive men of the world, but never with the 
something that she had found once, and now 
found again when his eyes rested on her. 

He was thinner, browner than in the past. 
His smooth, straight hair was graying. His 
face was frankly tired save when he smiled. 
But the air of distinction was greater. Marks 
of dissipation on his face had gone, and those 
of experience had taken their place. Many 
who would have passed him twelve years ago 
would look at him with a second interested 
glance now, as a man that had lived keenly 
and in many lands; that perhaps had suffered. 
But in the last fancy they would have been 
wrong. He had never suffered in the vital 
sense, because he had never loved. 

These were Nora’s thoughts as she furtively 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


watched him. She had cause to hate him. 
Often, before she had learned to forget, she 
had prayed that some woman would teach him 
the lesson of pain. The resentment was there 
to-night, gaining gradual strength as she re- 
membered, but it was like a death-potion 
blended with an elixir, for the possibility of 
love was there too. 

How it came about she did not clearly know, 
for she seemed half -dreaming all the night, 
but they supped at the Cafe de Paris , and it 
was two o’clock before she found herself in a 
fiacre with Lawrence. Then, as they leaned 
back, the quiet streets about them, the mask 
dropped from their faces. 

There had been light gossip and banter with 
the champagne. They had been like new, gay 
acquaintances, but now that Mrs. St. Leger, 
from pure mischievousness, had managed that 
Lawrence should take his old love home, some 
word about their true attitqde was necessary. 
He felt cross and injured, but leaped into the 
breach. 


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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


“ I hope our meeting was not too unpleas- 
ant, ” he said formally. “ I would have pre- 
vented it if I could, but I didn’t know.” 

Nora was silent. She was thinking of the 
day when she read his letter of farewell; and 
Tony — forgotten for so long — seemed sud- 
denly horribly real, his dead face upon her 
knees. She could have burst into hysterical 
sobs. The champagne, the excitement, the 
surprise made her feel this way, no doubt. She 
looked at Lawrence once, and looked away. 

“ However,” the voice she loved — or hated — 
which? — went on, “since it’s happened after 
all these years, I want to know if life is 
going well with you.” 

She laughed, and it had an ugly sound. 

“I am well, healthy; I have comfort, 
good clothes, and good food — thanks to your 
money.” 

“ We need not speak of that,” he said with 
distaste. “ You were very sensible. I’ve 
been so glad that at any rate I could do that 
much for you.” 


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TIME , THE COMEDIAN^ 


“Yes, I dare say it made the rest easier,” 
and again she laughed unpleasantly. 

“ It was better to be honest with you,” he 
said with some defiance. “ I have not mar- 
ried. I always realized that as a husband I 
should be a failure. Believe me, that knowl- 
edge has its own pain. I’m worthless, a spec- 
tator at a show, a wanderer, lacking what 
most men find so easily. I was so sorry,” he 
paused, a real vibration in his voice, “ so 
sorry to hurt you. It taught me such a les- 
son. No other woman has since suffered 
through me.” 

“ It seems strange to speak of that time 
after all these years. I never dreamed I 
should,” she said rapidly. “ But I must for 
once. You should have married me, no matter 
what unhappiness to us both might have fol- 
lowed. That would have given me a footing 
on something sure, and no misery could be as 
bad as what you portioned out to me. Re- 
membering Tony,” she said, in a chilling whis- 
per, “oh, remembering him, and that it was 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


a letter I had written to you — oh, remembering 
that , how could you do it? ” 

The years had made Lawrence more serious; 
his conscience was more troublesome, and the 
pale, very pretty face with accusing eyes seen 
in the starlight stirred him to impulsive pity. 
Before he could find words in which to answer 
her, the fiacre turned from the Champs Ely- 
sees into the Avenue Montaigne. 

“ I live here,” she said, resuming a formal 
tone, and the fiacre stopped. 

As they walked to the big jade-green doors, 
and he laid his hand on the bell communicating 
with the concierge's lodge, he looked down at 
her seriously. He would not have felt so sorry 
for her had she been a big woman. 

“ Let me see you again,” was all he said, 
but her heart put a world of meaning into the 
words. 

“ Why not? Let us see if friendship is 
possible, if you like,” and she held out her 
hand. 

“ Does this mean you forgive me, Nora? ” 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


His voice speaking her name affected her 
like a caress. 

“ I think so.” 

She turned to go, for the doors had swung 
back automatically, but she paused and con- 
sidered something. 

“ When you come — remember,” she said, 
her lips moving nervously, “ that Ruth knows 
nothing.” 

“Ruth?” he said, puzzled, and added, 
quickly: “ Oh, yes, of course.” 

“And about the money — she thinks — I made 
it — speculating — years ago. I could not say 
it came to me from the family, for Aunt Abby 
knew there was nothing, and told Ruth.” 

“ I see. I wouldn’t have touched on it, of 
course,” he said, and putting away the unpleas- 
ant topic took up another. “ I quite forgot 
little Ruth, although I’ve often thought of 
her. That dimple. From a shovel, wasn’t it? ” 

“ No, from a dust-pan. Good night.” 


152 


CHAPTER XIV 


Tea was served at five on Mrs. Dakon’s bal- 
cony these fine days, whenever she was at 
home. It was not quite a week after her meet- 
ing with Lawrence when he appeared just in 
time for a cup of it, and found Mrs. St. Leger 
there ahead of him. 

“You can’t lose me, Larry,” she said, as 
he sat down opposite her among the flower- 
pots. “ You know our tastes were always 
alike, and Bo-peep is a great comfort to 
me, too.” 

The inference and the old name annoyed 
him. He did not respond to her smile. He 
regretted coming. He called himself a fool. 
He had not really wanted to come, except for 
a desire not to hurt Nora by failing to keep 
his promise. He had felt sorry for her, as 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


they drove home in the rawness and quiet of 
the new day, but now that he saw her moving 
radiantly in the sunlight, her smile coquettish, 
her hair too glittering to be real, her face too 
white and her lips too red, the boredom that 
seized him so easily made itself felt, and he 
wished himself far away from the Avenue 
Montaigne. 

“ Where’s St. Leger? ” he asked, in a surly 
tone, to turn the conversation in a new 
direction. 

“ Let me see. It’s about noon in New York. 
I fancy he’s just getting up and wishing his 
head didn’t ache,” she said, and stirred her 
tea comfortably. 

“Ah, that’s the way it goes, eh? There’s an 
awful sameness to your marriages, Pussy,” 
he laughed. “And you look more cheerful 
each time. When does the case come on? ” 

“ There’ll be no divorce this time. I’ll spend 
my life in shackles, but St. Leger and I’ll 
arrange always to pass each other on the high 
seas.” 


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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


“ It would be really too awful, a third di- 
vorce,” said Nora, with a rippling laugh. 
“ Think of it. How people would stare! ” 

“ Here’s the way I look at it,” said Mrs. St. 
Leger. “A first divorce is a tragedy; in a 
second the people become high-class comedi- 
ans; a third is a roaring farce, shriekingly 
funny, and that’s all. You then become the 
property of the comic papers and are meat 
for topical songs.” 

“ Your recuperative powers are marvelous,” 
said Lawrence, and looked away from her to 
the picture of Paris at his feet. 

Through the branches of the horse-chestnuts 
he caught glimpses of the avenue, a slow-mov- 
ing ’bus crowded on top, carriages returning 
from the Bois with the glitter from the sunset 
on the harness, a trio of mounted officers in 
scarlet walking their horses, some nuns in blue- 
gray with flapping white head-dresses. 

“ Just see that girl, coming this way! ” said 
Mrs. St. Leger. “ That’s a picture only pos- 
sible in Paris. And isn’t it refreshing, un- 
11 155 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


studied? If a girl did that on Fifth Avenue 
she’d be mobbed. Nothing surprises the 
French.” 

Lawrence turned to look, and Mrs. Dakon 
leaned over him. He saw an open fiacre , 
driven by a cherry-faced cocher with a white 
glazed hat, and sitting back among big 
branches of flowers and growing plants which 
filled the space was a bareheaded girl, whose 
brown hair was lifted from her forehead by 
the breeze. 

“ It’s Ruth,” said Mrs. Dakon. “ That girl 
spends all her spare francs on flowers. She 
hates hats,” she added apologetically. “ She’s 
a regular gipsy.” 

Ruth looked toward the balcony, gave a 
flashing smile as she waved her sailor hat and 
disappeared. Very soon they heard her voice 
in the salon giving Etienne and the concierge 
directions about the flowers. When she came 
out on the balcony and shook hands with Mrs. 
St. Leger, she looked at Lawrence with candid 
curiosity. 


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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


“ Ruth, this is an old friend,” her mother 
began. “You know I told you of meet- 
ing ” 

“ Oh, yes. I should have known you, Mr. 
Brundage,” she said, her changeful face 
bright with welcome. “ Would you have 
known me? ” 

“ Indeed I should,” said Lawrence. 
“ You’re the Ruth I knew, grown big, that’s 
all.” 

“And with my hair done up, but not very 
neatly, I’ll admit.” 

“ But with the dimple doing business at 
the old stand.” 

She laughed gaily. 

“ That’s American slang. Tom Cautley 
says it. I love it.” 

“ Have some tea, Ruth? ” 

“ I’ll take a little bit of tea and a lot of 
cake. Here’s a nice, chunky piece, black with 
raisins.” 

She sat down near Lawrence, and, while 
she drank her tea with enjoyment, he saw 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


she was looking at him and into the past he 
recalled. He felt his spirit refreshed by her 
presence. She was absolutely free from affec- 
tation or self-consciousness. Her manner was 
as simple and direct as a pleasant boy’s, yet 
her charm was made of ingredients that were 
entirely feminine. In her face there was such 
light and shade of expression as he had never 
seen; her eyes were like aquamarines held be- 
fore a light; her smile was never twice the 
same; her voice was full of inflections that 
magnetized; her swift movements were all 
grace. 

He sat forward and looked at her fixedly 
until her cheeks warmed. 

“Are you one of those queer people, Mr. 
Brundage, who can read one’s thoughts? ” she 
asked, with a whimsical movement of her lips. 

“ You — you — little Ruth,” he said slowly, 
“must be twenty, or past it. Lord! how old 
I feel! ” 

“ Twenty-one next month,” said Ruth 
promptly. 


158 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


“ Please — please don’t be statistical,” Mrs. 
Dakon pleaded, and flung up her hands help- 
lessly. “A grown daughter is such a give- 
away.” 

“ Yes,” said Lawrence, “ Ruth stands for 
a succession of mile-stones. But you ought 
not to object to that. Sometimes the mile- 
stones are the most welcome things in the 
landscape.” 

44 I hate them!” Mrs. Dakon snapped. 
“ Nasty things — always pointing and telling 
the truth.” 

4 4 Both things that are considered bad form 
nowadays. But there’s worse to come,” said 
Mrs. St. Leger, as she gave an unctuous little 
laugh and rose to go. 44 Some day Ruth will 
make you a mother-in-law to a great big man.” 

Ruth bent over and kissed her mother’s 
querulous brow. She knew how distasteful 
the subject was to her. 

44 Don’t believe it, Noddy. I’ll never marry. 
You and I’ll grow old together, good chums.” 

44 If you’d only stick to that, you’d be in 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


luck,’’ Mrs. St. Leger exclaimed. “ To look 
at life through the circle of a marriage-ring 
is to have a very small horizon. But you’ll be 
a fool, too, and take the little horizon and 
the big fellow some day.” 

Etienne appeared at the window. 

“ Monsieur Cautley.” 

“ Oh, it’s Tom,” said Ruth gladly, “ and 
the tea’s cold. Here, Etienne, make some 
fresh, quickly, and fetch some cake.” 

Tom, young, big, blond, stepped out. 
After introductions to Mrs. St. Leger and 
Lawrence he sat down next Ruth and looked 
at her. There was that in his brown eyes 
which sent a pang through Lawrence. A bit- 
ter truth came home to him. Although, 
despite his graying hair, he was still counted 
among the ranks of young men, he had lost 
the something that emanated from this hand- 
some boy, twenty-five at most. It was the 
animal joy of breath, the full pulse of ado- 
lescence. 

“I’ll drop you at your hotel, Lawrence. 

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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


Bo-peep is coming with me. She’s getting her 
hat,” whispered Mrs. St. Leger. “ You can 
see you’re not wanted here.” 

“ What do you mean? ” 

“ Why, this is the big fellow. Ten to one 
he has the ring in his pocket.” 

That these words should jar Lawrence un- 
pleasantly, was unaccountable; that he should 
say good-by with a touch of coldness to Ruth, 
unreasonable; and leave with a feeling of de- 
pression, foolish. Yet so it was. 


161 


CHAPTER XV 

It was raining hard. Lawrence, with De 
Cenantes, had been trying a new automobile 
in the Bois, and when the downpour com- 
menced had gone into the Chalet du Lac. 
They found a table in the glass-enclosed corri- 
dor, and over Scotch-and-soda for Lawrence, 
and an amer-picon, well diluted, for the little 
count, they made themselves comfortable. 

They were almost alone in the place, for 
the day had been threatening, and the car- 
riages few on the Avenue des Acacias. Law- 
rence tilted his chair against the wall and gazed 
at the lake. The sky was black except at the 
west, where an electric band flashed out and 
made the waters like a bed of quicksilver. Vic- 
torias with aprons drawn went darkly past. 

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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


The red-coated orchestra, while yawning, 
played spiritlessly, “ Connais-tu le pays ? " 

“ This place is triste ” said De Cenantes, 
“ and do you know, Brundage, mon cher, you 
are as quiet these days as a philosopher or 
a moonstruck boy, I don’t know which. You 
are more quiet than an Englishman, and I’d 
give a good deal to know what’s in your mind,” 
he added, tapping his cane against his pointed 
boot in time to the music. 

“You couldn’t help me. No Frenchman 
could,” said Lawrence, with a friendly sneer. 
“ Shall I tell you? I’m thinking of the mys- 
tery called 4 falling in love,’ the 4 divinest and 
deepest of human intuitions,’ as some one has 
called it.” 

4 4 And you think I’m not an authority. My 
dear Brundage, I’m always in love.” 

44 You’re speaking of r V amour/ I’m speak- 
ing of the attraction called 4 love ’ in Saxon 
countries, an instinct that is marvelous, in- 
scrutable, an intuitive selection, unfathomable, 
compelling, before which your cold reason 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


may stand aghast, but which is borne down 
by it as Niagara snatches up a feather.” 

“You frighten me. What a profound re- 
flection. Do I know the woman? Is it that 
little widow — Bacon? — Dakon? ” 

“ You wanted my thoughts at the moment. 
I’ve given them. But if I want a father con- 
fessor I’ll look elsewhere.” 

After this his silence continued, and no 
raillery or innuendo drew him to utter his 
thoughts again. 

He was due at Mrs. Dakon’s that night for 
bridge whist and supper. He was going only 
to see Ruth, just as he had gone a dozen times 
since the day he watched her driving bare- 
headed among the tall flowers. Sometimes 
he had found her with her mother’s friends, 
at other times she had not appeared, or had 
come in only as he was leaving. 

As he was driven to the Avenue Montaigne 
at ten, the lights of Paris, the clouds in the 
sky, the roll of the wheels, and the beating of 
his heart were all moving, twinkling, throbbing 
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TIME THE COMEDIAN 


to one question: Would Ruth be there? He 
felt himself “ the weary well,” “ the broken 
brook ” of Stevenson’s poem, but she was the 
beginning of beautiful life, and all the faith 
and glamour he had lost glowed in her eyes. 
Then, too, how modern and human she was, 
pure without being prudish, and as tactful as 
a society veteran. 

He thought of his last visit to Mrs. Dakon’s, 
a few evenings before. There were a score 
of her friends there. He was silently, scorch- 
ingly critical of them. He knew some of the 
men as adventurers, and some of the women 
as well-plumaged, well-mannered birds of 
prey. He had burned with honest wrath to 
see Ruth among them ; but what poise the girl 
had, and what a protection she was to her 
mother! It must have affronted her to see 
Mrs. Dakon saturate herself in the fumes of 
half a dozen cigarettes, smoked hilariously, 
while other women enjoyed one daintily with- 
out giving the act any spectacular effect; yet 
she lighted a match for her mother, and her 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


serene acceptance of the excess somehow ex- 
tracted much of the objectionable from it. It 
must have humiliated her to see her mother 
do a Spanish dance, less graceful but as wild 
as Carmencita’s, and sink breathless and 
shrieking into the arms of a student young 
enough to have been her son; yet she with the 
others applauded the dance. When she heard 
her mother tell her friends she had eloped 
from boarding-school at thirteen, no one dared 
by the flicker of an eyelash to seem to question 
it, for Ruth said gravely: 

“And didn’t Aunt Abby always say that 
when you had me in your arms you looked 
like a little girl with her doll? Didn’t she, 
Noddy? ” 

This pleasant fiction, uttered so often, was 
seized on again with avidity. 

“ Yes,” Mrs. Dakon said triumphantly. 
“ Every one was shocked at me. The clergy- 
man that married us was very much criticized.” 

Later, when he had caught sight of Ruth’s 
hidden face as she stood alone in the hall, paler, 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


the eyes flashing with helpless chagrin, he re- 
alized how she loved her mother, and how she 
suffered through that love. 

“Adorable, loyal bit of womankind,” was 
Lawrence’s thought as he went up the stairs. 
“ Dear Ruth! ” 

A surprise awaited him when he was ad- 
mitted by Etienne. The party had been post- 
poned. Mrs. Dakon had a headache, and she 
was stretched in a reclining-chair in a wonder- 
ful buttercup-yellow tea-gown, her silver-gold 
hair lying in heavy Marguerite plaits over her 
shoulders. Ruth was reading aloud the news 
of the day from La Patrie. 

“ Yes, Larry, I let you come,” Mrs. Dakon 
said, giving him one languid hand where many 
rings flashed while she held a huge gold scent- 
bottle to her nostrils with the other. “ I made 
you an exception. A quiet evening with you 
could only be restful. But,” with a self-con- 
scious smile, “ Stradhoff is coming in, too. I 
told him not to, but he persists. Russians are 
so fierce and determined.” 

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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 

In reality she had arranged for Stradhoff 
to be there, to play him against Lawrence. 
She felt that the Russian’s melodramatic de- 
votion must make her more valuable in the eyes 
of the only man for whom her heart had ever 
longed and ached sincerely. 

Lawrence divined this, and after Stradhoff 
appeared, he was in no mood to play the part 
assigned to him. Instead, he talked with Ruth 
of the art school, of her friends, getting her 
views on life and books. She talked well, with 
flashes of wit, with touches of slang, the argot 
of the studio. She had none of that excessive 
and finely edged culture which suggests blood- 
lessness. 

But the tete-a-tete was too delightful to be 
long enjoyed. Mrs. Dakon saw that all her 
ammunition was being wasted. Stradhoff 
hung over her and talked in burning whispers, 
and Lawrence, sitting beside the pink-globed 
lamp, his eyes on Ruth in her white gauze 
gown, saw nothing of it. It was too pro- 
voking. She called him to her on a pretense 
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TIME 3 THE COMEDIAN 


of looking at some lines in her palm which 
had been read by a fashionable seer the day be- 
fore. As he obeyed, Ruth stepped out on the 
balcony, beyond his sight. She seemed to 
take the light of the room with her. 

He found her there when he went to say 
good night, and meant to linger over the say- 
ing of it as long as he could. She was in a 
low chair, her bare arms crossed behind her 
head. 

“Are you going? ” she said, rising. “ Has 
— that man — Stradhoff gone? ” she asked 
eagerly, looking into the room. 

Stradhoff was fanning Mrs. Dakon, his 
nose about an inch from her cheek. Ruth 
gave her shoulders a twist, dislike and anxiety 
in her eyes. 

“ I hate that man,” she confided to Law- 
rence in an intense undertone. “I feel a 
malaise when he’s near me. Do you think 
Noddy cares for him? ” she asked suddenly. 

“A good deal, if one can judge by signs,” 
Lawrence smiled. 


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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


She struck her fist against her open hand. 

“ Child, what is it? Those troubled eyes! ” 
said Lawrence. 

She hesitated, looking over the silvered roofs 
of Paris, then said quickly: 

“ I’ll tell you. Noddy worries me.” The 
tones were hot and impatient, but the words 
that followed melted into wistful love. 4 I’m 
so afraid for her. At night I lie awake and 
wonder about her future. I wish she were 
safely married to some nice man, who’d love 
her really and be very kind to her.” 

A pang went through Lawrence. He 
longed to take Ruth in his arms and comfort 
her. For the moment, it was not the love of 
man for woman, but something kindred to the 
mother-love she had never known. 


170 


CHAPTER XVI 


Mid- June. Paris was sunny, breezy, fra- 
grant, happy, its fountains sending up show- 
ers of liquid prisms to a smiling sky. Mrs. 
Dakon’s cart was brought around at eleven, 
and with Etienne motionless as a bronze fig- 
ure, as he sat behind her in his brown livery, 
she drove at a smart pace to the Bois. 

According to the unwritten laws of the 
fashionable set, it was smart to ride these days 
in a summer habit and sailor hat at about ten, 
smart to drive your own cart at the hour for 
dejeuner , smart to be driven at five in a low- 
hung victoria up the Champs Elysees to the 
Bois, direct to the Avenue des Acacias and 
to no other place. 

Mrs. Dakon did all these things. Only 
brute force could have made her step into 

12 171 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


her cart in the afternoon, and never once had 
she left the treadmill of the Avenue des Aca- 
cias, where she was sure to pass the stars of 
the world and the half -world fifty times of 
an afternoon, for any of the much more beau- 
tiful drives stretching away in green perspec- 
tive on every side. Any outsider criticizing 
this wearying sameness was met by a big, un- 
answerable stare, and the refrain that, to be 
comme il faut, these things, and these only, 
might be done. 

She drove quickly, her eyes glancing from 
right to left. There was rebellious color on 
her pale, disciplined cheeks, her heart was fla- 
ming, and its glory had touched all that her 
eyes rested on. 

She had just passed the Arc de Triomphe 
when she saw Professor Gunning sitting 
among the crowd under the trees. His hands 
were clasped over his stick; his eyes gazed 
ahead drearily. A fear that he might see her 
and follow in a fiacre made her touch Coquet 
sharply. 


172 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


“ Not this morning, my dear Richard,” she 
thought, with a rush of ecstacy over her heart. 
“ You’re a good soul, but prosy. How did 
I ever stand your long sentences, your elab- 
orate compliments? ” 

She was watching for Lawrence among the 
horsemen that went by. An exquisite satis- 
faction possessed her. She would see him 
to-day. He had said yesterday that he 
meant to ride every morning, and would gen- 
erally breakfast at the Pavilion d’Armenon- 
ville. The rest of the conversation occurred 
to her : 

“ I take Coquet out in the cart quite often, 
and I, too, go to Armenonville for breakfast. 
Strange I’ve never run across you there. So 
many people come up — one knows nearly 
every one.” 

“ I hope not,” he said teasingly. 

“ Oh, well, there are some I only know by 
sight, or repute.” 

“ Or disrepute. Do you take Ruth with 
you?” 


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“ Very seldom. She has only Sundays free, 
in the mornings. I don’t often take the cart 
out then, because I rest, as I go to the races 
so often in the afternoon.” 

“ So do I, quite often.” 

“ Then how have I missed seeing you? ” 

“ I’ve not paid much attention to anything 
but the horses, with a lot of other men, you 
know. Next time I’ll look for you. Do you 
bet?” 

“ Oh, rather,” she said, her heart exultant 
as she saw a picture of many Sundays at 
Longchamps with Lawrence at her side for 
all to see; Lawrence, who, by reason of his 
millions and handsome face, could make any 
woman the fashion, if he chose. 

“And Ruth,” he went on, “ do you let her 
gamble? ” 

“ Ruth does just as she pleases. Fancy 
me controlling Ruth. I’m such an irresponsi- 
ble creature — and she’s anything but a tame 
ingenue , I assure you. She goes seldom, 
though. Our tastes are so different. She 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


likes things that bore me to extinction. In 
fact, she’d prefer a Sunday at Meudon with 
some of her painting chums to all the Long- 
champs in the world. Fancy! She doesn’t 
care to do what’s usual, you know.” 

“Ah,” he said thoughtfully, and smiled. 
“ But would you expect a girl with a mouth 
and eyes like hers to do the usual thing? Ruth 
is a free-lance. You may be sure she’ll always 
prefer the untrodden path, and follow it if 
it seems good unto her.” 

The subject began to bore Nora. She 
wanted to talk of Armenonville and a rendez- 
vous . 

“If to-morrow is a day like this,” she had 
said, as he was leaving, “ you may run across 
me under one of the trees.” 

“ I wonder if I’ll be so lucky,” he mur- 
mured, in a speculative tone, and with an air 
as if his thoughts were far away. 

After he was gone, she comforted herself 
with the thought that, despite his absent air, 
he would surely be there. That lazy, almost 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


impertinent indifference was merely a man- 
nerism, and she had always thought it an at- 
tractive one. She sat in a dream for an hour. 
How good life had been to her, after all! 
When she had suffered so cruelly, when health 
had seemed gone, when the world had looked 
dour, and it had seemed as if nothing could 
ever interest her again, she had come to 
Paris and lived in a way congenial to her. 
Slowly the ache had gone away, so slowly, so 
gradually, she never knew when it had ceased 
to be; the years brought a lethal healing; she 
never saw Lawrence, she never heard his name. 
New interests had come; she had thought her- 
self happy enough with Ruth, with her gay 
friends, and with a flirtation more or less seri- 
ous to give a tang to the days. 

So it had been until that night at Les Deux 
Ecoles. Hate or love for Lawrence when with 
him were the only feelings possible to her. 
The old resentment had crept like a fanged 
thing into its lair, not to die, but to sleep, 
and she fancied an angel walked by her side, 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 

9 

teaching her a lesson of forgiveness, charity, 
love. 

Lawrence’s many visits could mean but one 
thing: That now, at last, after twelve years, 
the old wrong was to be wiped out. She loved 
him with a reawakened tenderness which in- 
tensified with every familiar gesture and tone. 
She wondered if he loved her so, or if he was 
preparing to ask her to be his wife because 
he was a better man now, who felt it was 
the just thing to do. He did not look at her 
as in the old days. Doubtless the first ecstasy 
and the witchery that lie in the beginnings of 
love were gone from his heart never to be 
awakened again. But if his affection, his 
trust, his care were for her, surely she could 
be happy. 

Yes, how good the world was, and how kind 
Fate had been to her. At forty she was a 
beauty still, slender, witching, with a face 
Time seemed only to kiss. Her lips curled in 
a smile that grew in radiance as she heard in 
fancy her marriage chimes ringing out the 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


last ghost of the tragic past, and saw herself 
in pearl-gray chiffon and a big picture-hat, 
vowing to “ love, honor, and obey ” Lawrence 
Brundage as long as she lived. 

This was the dream that made her face 
bright as she turned Coquet up the drive to 
the restaurant, gave the reins to Etienne, and 
strolled to a table under a tree where Mrs. St. 
Leger sat with an English countess. 

“ Just in time, my dear,” said Mrs. St. 
Leger. “ You know Lady Merben? Now 
shall I order cocktails?” 

“ I’m game,” said Mrs. Dakon, slowly 
drawing off her loose dogskins and looking 
around. 

“ I think they’re such mucky things, you 
know,” said Lady Merben. 

“ By the way, I saw Larry a few moments 
ago,” said Mrs. St. Leger. 

“ Where’s his table?” 

“ Not here. As I drove up he was going 
the other way at a great pace in his new 
hansom. ‘ Come to breakfast,’ I called, as 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


he passed, but he shook his head. He looked 
as fit as you please.” 

To conceal her disappointment, Nora 
plunged into talk with a young officer that 
strolled up. The charm of the day had 
snapped. She longed to weep like an exas- 
perated child. 

Lawrence’s hansom, after passing Mrs. St. 
Leger, continued down the Champs Elysees, 
across the Pont du Carrousel to the left side 
of the Seine, until, after many twistings, his 
man pulled up outside a musty little shop on 
the Rue des Saints Peres, whose windows 
were filled with a multitude of things — old 
brass, silver, china, bits of tapestry, dim paint- 
ings, old lace, missals, old boxes, prints — a 
fascinating collection. 

The interior was like a wash-drawing in 
shadow, and smelled of old rose-leaves. Law- 
rence seemed alone in the place for a moment. 
As his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness 
he saw an old man rising from a table behind 
a big clock, his midday salad and long-necked 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


bottle of red wine spread upon the coarse, 
white cloth. 

“ I want to see a certain little box you have 
here,” said Lawrejice, seating himself on a 
Venetian couch. “ It is made of tortoise-shell, 
shaped like an old trousseau chest, clamped 
with gold and studded with some jewels. Just 
in the center there is a miniature said to be 
of the Duchesse de Choiseul. I want to 
see it.” 

“ Monsieur may see it,” said the man, “ but 
it is not for sale.” 

“ Why not?” 

“ It is rather a curious history,” he said, his 
dim eyes smiling, “ and I like such things. A 
young American lady has often come in here 
and looked at the box. Its price always 
seemed very great, though she knew its au- 
thentic history and that the box was well worth 
it. Ah, she was quite wild to have that box, 
and at last, the other day, we made a bargain. 
Every week she is to pay me twenty francs 
upon it.” 


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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


He went to the back of the shop and re- 
turned with the treasure, which Lawrence saw 
was without doubt a genuine antique, an old 
Louis XV. jewel-case. 

“ You will sell me this box to-day,” he said 
to the dealer. 

“Not for a hundred francs more, nor for 
two, monsieur. My word is given. The dem- 
oiselle is to make the first payment to-day.” 

“ But listen. The young lady’s birthday is 
to-morrow, and I want to give it to her. How 
now, my friend? ” 

The old man shrugged, and a whimsical 
smile went over his face. 

“ Very good, providing you give it to her 
here before me. That is business. She will 
be here at five o’clock.” 

Half an hour before that time Lawrence 
returned, paid for the box, and with it beside 
him, waited for Ruth. If he had shut his 
eyes to the knowledge of what these past 
weeks had achieved, he could evade the truth 
no longer as he saw her crossing the street 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


in the sunlight. The magnolia paleness of 
her childish face, the warmth and hope in her 
eyes! His heart beat heavily, and a breeze 
that pained swept along his nerves. 

“ Trusty, dusky, vivid, true, 

With eyes of gold and bramble-dew.” 

The words were Stevenson’s but the music 
to which these were set was born in the depths 
of a glorious, unreckoning love. 

When Ruth saw him, the color went over 
her face. 

“ You came to see my treasure, my find? ” 
she asked, bending over the box, opening it, 
and smelling the faded red silk of that exact 
tint which only the alchemy of age can give. 
“ I didn’t say too much about its beauty, now, 
did I?” 

“I’m glad you like my box,” Lawrence 
smiled, leaning nearer to her, the impudence 
that many women had found attractive in his 
long gaze. 

“ Yours? ” said Ruth, facing him. — “ Mon- 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


sieur Dorblette, have you sold my box?” she 
asked in tones that quivered with reproach. 

“ I think monsieur will explain,” and he 
withdrew discreetly. 

Lawrence was looking at her with a serious 
tenderness which troubled her heart. 

“ I wanted you to have something you really 
longed for, little Ruth, and when you told 
me the other day of this antique, and your plan 
for buying it, it gave me an inspiration. Be- 
sides, to-morrow is your birthday.” 

“ How did you know? ” she said, dazed and 
happy, her dimple deepening as he placed the 
box in her hands. 

“ Your mother told me. It’s a pity, though, 
that this should be empty,” he ventured. 
“ Isn’t there an old proverb about disaster at- 
tending an empty box or purse? I think a 
string of pearls just long enough to clasp 
your throat — such a little string — just the 
thing, too, for you to wear at the countess’ 
dance next week ” 

She gave a laugh of childish delight. 

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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


“ Don’t dazzle me. Haven’t you been ma- 
gician enough for one day? I longed so for 
this. Oh, how good you are to give it to me ! ” 

“You shall have the pearls, too,” he said 
decidedly. “And they shall each be as large 
as the tears you are never to shed,” he added, 
with a gentleness that delighted and touched 
her. 

“What a pretty thing to say! You know 
how to say such very pretty things,” she 
added, with a questioning movement of her 
brows. 

“ Which means — what? That you think me 
almost a professional maker of compliments? ” 
he asked sadly. 

“ Oh, no,” she laughed. “ Had you lived 
when this was made,” holding up the box, 
“ they would have said you had ‘ a pretty 
wit.’ ” 

Instructions were left with the dealer to 
have the box taken to the address in the Ave- 
nue Montaigne, and Lawrence suggested dri- 
ving Ruth in his hansom wherever she wished. 

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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


“Anywhere but home, for an hour at least,” 
he added, as he handed her in. 

“ I know,” she said impulsively. “ It’s a 
holy day, I think. Let’s go to Notre Dame 
for a little while. I love it. I love the hush, 
the music, the age of it. I haven’t been 
there in months.” 

Had Ruth suggested the morgue, Law- 
rence’s readiness would have been just as en- 
thusiastic. It mattered nothing where the 
horse took him, so that he could see the 
face that had come to mean happiness to 
him. 

“ Look! Don’t you love it, too? ” she asked, 
as Notre Dame’s blanched, gray sides came 
into view in the sunlight. “ See the sparrows 
whirling from gargoyle to gargoyle, chatter- 
ing all the time,” she laughed softly, leaning 
her folded hands on the apron of the hansom. 
“ I always think those little sparrows so 
cheeky. Think of those brown, fluffy, tiny 
things flirting with Notre Dame! ” 

“They have no respect for age,” he said, 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


and added after a pause: “ I hope you haven’t, 
either.” 

“Why?” 

“ I’d feel horribly sorry if I thought you 
respected me,” he said. 

She made a skeptical face, and the dimple 
flickered in her cheek. 

“ I almost do. Don’t you want me to? ” 

“ No. If I’m respected, I’m set apart on a 
chilling altitude. Mountain air never agrees 
with me.” 

She faced him fully. 

“Have you been a very, very bad man? 
I know that men may be very wicked and yet 
be thought very nice. Noddy’s friends are 
like that,” she said. 

“ I hope I’m not like some of Noddy’s 
friends. I’ve never cheated at cards, and I 
know that one — But there, I won’t talk scan- 
dal. Tell me, Ruth,” he said suddenly, and 
with a personal earnestness, “ is the man you 
dream of, your ideal, a Sir Galahad? ” 

She shook her head. 


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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


“ You think me very young and ignorant 
and childish, but I’ve learned to know a great 
deal about life, being in Paris and looking 
after Noddy as I’ve always done. You see, a 
girl gets to know. Then, in the school — 
you should hear how they talk there! It’s 
quite the fashion to be thought a cynic about 
everything — and then some things have hap- 
pened there ” — She broke off, her pretty 
brow drawn in a line of thought. “ No, if I 
have an ideal, he’s not a Sir Galahad. I detest 
perfect people. I like people to have faults. 
I have so many.” 

“Where do you hide them?” 

“ Oh! I’m often nasty and jealous, and I’ve 
often hurt people that liked me. Then, I love 
to shock these cold, narrow people who imag- 
ine that going to church makes them Chris- 
tians. One sort of goodness is intolerable 
to me.” 

“ Your charity is so wide, Ruth. Could 
you forgive a man you loved a great deal? ” 

“ It wouldn’t matter what he did before I 
187 


13 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


knew him — I mean in the way of morals — if 
he was never dishonorable or cruel. But I 
should want his future all mine, and my stand- 
ard of honor, his.” 

“ You could understand the horrible force 
of some temptations, with weakness and self- 
ishness following? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ I knew you could,” he said as if to him- 
self. 

“And all this time you have not answered 
my impertinent question,” said Ruth. “ But 
I shouldn’t have asked you. You needn’t tell 
me. Why should you? ” 

“ I want to,” he said simply. “ I’m glad 
your question was asked in the past tense. I’m 
not what I was, I’m not, indeed. Perhaps this 
is not so much to my credit. As far as what 
is termed sin goes, I’m a languid watcher at 
a feast for which I’ve no longer any appetite. 
But I’ve eaten of the fruit of the tree of 
knowledge. It’s bitter at the core. We only 
find it out after the eating.” 

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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


“ You are something like Rochester, in 
‘ J ane Eyre,’ ” said Ruth. 

“ Isn’t he very popular with very young 
women? ” he laughed, his mood changing. 

“ Oh, fascinating,” Ruth admitted, and then 
colored vividly, laughing too. 

“I probably suggest him a little, because 
the edges of my hair are getting melodra- 
matically gray. Soon I’ll be able to quote 
with more point: 

“ In youth my hair was black as night. 

My life as white as driven snow. 

As white as snow my hair is now. 

And that is black which once was white.** 

The hansom stopped at the church doors. 

“I’m glad I’m with you to-day, Ruth,” he 
said. “ I haven’t been in church in years.” 

The shadow and coolness of the great sanc- 
tuary were like hands shutting out the work- 
ing, sunshiny world and drawing them in to 
prayer. Purple and cerise bars from the high 
windows lay on the white floor; a priest’s in- 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


toning with a sad, falling note came distantly 
from beyond the scrolled brass gates before the 
altar ; up in the marble dome there were faint, 
trembling chimes. 

Lawrence and Ruth paced down the side 
aisle together. He was looking at her face. 
A dreamy penitence for all his past sins surged 
through him as a lazy wave steals up the sands 
and falls back inertly. Her crystal purity, not 
born of ignorance, made him ashamed. It 
was a new feeling. If she really knew life as 
he had lived it! She could talk of a man hav- 
ing sinned; but if she knew what it meant! 
He put the thought away and watched her. 

They were passing the stations of the cross 
and had paused at one: “ Christ Comforts the 
Weeping Women.” A tenderness toward all 
women suffused him. He understood better 
than ever before how Nature had marked them 
for suffering — their frail bodies, tender hearts, 
the tragedy that can lie in motherhood. His 
love went out to Ruth with yearning. Some 
day she would suffer, as all women must, in 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


the spirit and the flesh. He looked at her 
hands — dear, childish hands ! at her body, slen- 
der, like a sapling; at her eyes, knowing no 
sorrow yet, save a reflection of others’. If 
he could keep suffering from her always! If 
he could only make her happy for every mo- 
ment of her life! He knew that this was 
love, the longing to give to another, to protect, 
to bless another. Self was in chains, its clam- 
orous tongue silent. 

Ruth looked at him and saw he was thought- 
ful. They did not speak, but silently and 
slowly circled the church, going back of the 
altar and reaching the other side. Here, in a 
shadowy niche, an old woman in black sat, a 
heap of blessed candles of various sizes before 
her, a twinkling pyramid of them on iron spikes 
burning beside her, and at a little distance, 
bent praying figures, some almost prone, but 
with eyes lifted to the lights. 

Ruth led the way to isolated, secluded seats 
with kneeling stools before them. 

“ Wait here,” she whispered, and left him. 

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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


He saw her go to the woman, buy a candle, 
light it herself from one of those burning and 
place it on a spike. She knelt down near it, 
and he watched the light from a window make 
crimson stains on her bent neck just below 
her ear. The candle was half burned when 
she returned to him, her lips quivering. 

“ I never can resist them,’’ she said, after a 
pause, very softly, for they were so far from 
the rest their whispers could not be heard. 
“ There is one I always burn a candle for. 
There is one I always pray for.” 

“Do you?” he asked. “Some one you 
love? I envy that person.” 

“ Some one who is dead,” she murmured, 
in a tone of such pitying, passionate love Law- 
rence thrilled to hear it. “In our church we 
are taught that prayers for the dead are fu- 
tile. I cannot think so. At least the dead 
may know that we remember and pray. I 
always pray for my father.” 

The simple, yearning words were like an in- 
sult flung in his face. He had been reveling 
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TIME 3 THE COMEDIAN 


in a cloudy repentance for a fashionably im- 
moral life. This girl had been praying for 
her father. His blood grew hot when he re- 
membered what the years had so obligingly 
nullified. But the thought was so unpleasant, 
so hostile to all his present longings and under- 
lying determination, he would not look upon 
its face. After all, Ruth had been but a child. 
She knew nothing but the mere fact — could 
never know — and he had made what amends 
he could to her mother. He need not feel so 
guilty — he would not. Who could have sup- 
posed that Anthony Dakon would have taken 
the loss of his foolish little wife’s love au 
grand serieuoc? 

But Ruth was speaking again: 

“ You knew my father? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“You were his best friend.” 

“ Don’t speak of this.” He moved uneasily. 
“ It’s so long ago. It can only make you un- 
happy.” 

“ It’s not so long ago to me,” she said in 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 

bitter pain, and her lashes fell. “ I think 
of him. I wonder about him. Oh, how I 
loved him ! I wish I had been older. Perhaps 
I could have helped him. Perhaps I could 
have made him know how much he was to 
me.” Her head sank on her hand. “ Why 
did he kill himself? Do you know? ” 

“ It was a mystery to every one,’’ he blurted. 

“ What could have made him so unhappy? 
He was poor, but he had Noddy, and he had 
me. I sorrow for him. Oh, if I could have 
him back ! ” She turned to him, her eyes a blur 
of tears. “ Noddy never will speak of him. 
Oh, tell me something about him! You knew 
him so well.” 

“ I — I don’t know what to say.” 

“ You knew him at college. Tell me about 
him — anything — tell me of your life together 
there.” 

“ I can’t,” he said fiercely. 

She was silent, then he felt her cold hand 
stealing into his, felt it nestle there, the small 
fingers winding themselves about his. 

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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


“ I see. It hurts you,” she said, a new ten- 
derness in her eyes. “ You loved him, too.” 

When, a few moments later, they went into 
the sunlight, Lawrence’s face was white. He 
was breathing like one who had run from 
danger. 


195 


CHAPTER XVII 


He ought to go away. He ought to leave 
Paris at once. He saw this very clearly. If 
he had a finer sense of honor, he would; or 
if this new feeling had not become as tentacles 
around his heart, he would. But he could not 
go — no, he could not. Merely to fancy put- 
ting land and sea between him and Ruth made 
him know a sense of loss that touched the mar- 
row of desolation. 

He believed she could love him. She would 
go by his side and transform the world for 
him. Without her, how well he knew it in 
the length and breadth of its flatness, staleness, 
unprofitableness. With her, he would taste 
again the rapture of living in golden days 
made warm with love. By and by — not so 
many years hence, alas! — he would find with 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


her a sweet, sane companionship in his old age. 
And to sacrifice this happiness to a too acute 
conscientiousness, stifle it because of a trag- 
edy into which he had been drawn by a chance 
grouping of circumstances, was too much to 
expect of a man that knew life as he knew it. 

He was walking fast along the lighted 
boulevards, though blind to the street scenes 
through which he passed. In thought it was 
the afternoon; he was again in Notre Dame, 
and Ruth’s cold, small hand, like silk to the 
touch, was slipping into his, nestling there, 
winding its fingers about his. Her eyes, a 
blur of tears, were turned to him, full of en- 
chanting tenderness. He would not dwell 
upon the fact that the touch and the look 
were both for her father’s friend, his best 
friend, who had loved him. 

She should never hear the old story of a 
man’s selfishness, a woman’s weakness, with 
the blood of the wronged one smeared across 
the page. Only her mother knew it, and she, 
for her own sake, would be silent. No hint 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


should resurrect that past wherein he had wan- 
tonly broken faith with two. Mrs. Dakon, 
no doubt, would be passively pleased to have 
him marry herself, the finish that a sentimental 
novelist would think proper for a love history 
like theirs; but since that was not to be, no 
doubt she would be rejoiced to give Ruth and 
him her blessing, because he was a “ catch,” 
and Mrs. Dakon was not above considering it 
a triumph to capture for her daughter a for- 
tune like his. 

After the long walk in the night mists which 
left him dazed and fatigued on the stairwayed 
pavement of Montmartre, he was more dogged 
in the determination to do all that a man could 
do to win Ruth than when he had set out upon 
it. It was his nature to combat the good in 
him when it rose as a barrier between himself 
and his appetites. The protesting voice made 
him perversely array every argument that self 
could voice against it. Years before, Nora’s 
flight from The Lawns had changed his hesi- 
tancy into an attack that had beaten down her 
198 


TIME 3 THE COMEDIAN 


scruples. Ruth’s words to-day had raised the 
ghost of his most regretted sin, and it had 
whispered to him to go from her because he 
was unworthy. The result was a determined 
resistance to it, a spelling of his unfitness back- 
ward, till he had convinced himself that since 
the tragedy had not been of his planning nor 
desire, and Ruth would never know of this 
page in his life and her mother’s, it would be 
quixotic to sacrifice his life’s happiness to an 
overniceness. He would stay. But he was 
sufficiently sensitive to let several days pass 
before he saw Ruth again. 

Those three days were bearing different 
fruit for the two that watched for his coming 
in the Avenue Montaigne. Mrs. Dakon was 
being continually confronted by a new idea, 
which she as obstinately pushed back. It had 
a look to make her shudder. Was Lawrence 
Brundage attracted to Ruth? It had come 
to her first when she heard that Lawrence had 
been purchasing the old jewel box in the Rue 
des Saints Peres, while she had lunched at 
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TIME THE COMEDIAN 


Armenonville, where she had kept a nervous 
watch for him, though feeling he would not 
come. 

She put it from her as almost humorous. 
Such a thing was absurd. He had happened 
to be on the other side of the Seine; he had 
happened to remember Ruth speaking of the 
box. Of course, he was fond of the girl. Was 
she not her daughter? The thought came 
again, however, when the necklace of pearls 
was delivered to Ruth with his card. She had 
no pearls. It was hard for her to mask her 
amazement, anger, and envy. The suspicion 
that had been tormenting her like the sting 
of a gnat changed to a racking fear. She 
could not bear to look at Ruth, who loved the 
pearls, who put them on and off continually. 
Lawrence had said they would be “ as big as 
tears.” Ruth did not dream the covetous 
tears were her mother’s, shed at night in the 
dark, while she slept. 

Ruth also watched for Lawrence’s coming. 
She was electrically alive with a new happi- 
200 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


ness. She did not try to solve it, but a song 
went with her all day; her mind strayed from 
her work in the school ; she walked through the 
sunlight, alone, happy with her thoughts, silent 
when with others, an underconsciousness of 
joy and expectancy going with her. She had 
a radiant air, her face was awakened, her green 
eyes under her lashes dreamed and glowed. 

The first time Lawrence appeared others 
were there, at tea-time, on the balcony. Ruth 
knew the truth about herself as she trembled 
when his hand touched hers. She could not 
speak. A feeling of ecstasy choked her. As 
soon as she could, she slipped away to her room 
and stood by the window, seeing nothing. 
There was something of defeat in the rap- 
ture that shook her. She loved this man. 
What she had seen make a weakling of Tom, 
a quivering dependent on her moods and 
glances, had conquered her. Her future, for 
good or ill, was in Lawrence Brundage’s 
keeping. The thought swept through her like 
a storm under which her heart ached. She 
201 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


would not have surrendered that pang for 
fifty lives of such content as had been hers be- 
fore this hour. 

Mrs. Dakon had learned something, too, as 
she regarded Lawrence from this new point 
of view. She saw he was hardly aware of her 
presence. He was distrait , and only replied 
when directly addressed. He kept a furtive 
watch on the door through which Ruth had 
passed. He loved her daughter. The realiza- 
tion overpowered her. She struggled with its 
immensity. Clear thought was impossible. 

“What am I to do?” She asked herself 
this continually. She did not know. 

They were going to the Countess de Ber- 
rode’s dance. This was four nights after 
Lawrence’s visit, and Mrs. Dakon had done 
nothing, said nothing. She was drifting, 
watching, and her nervousness increased. 
Ruth’s transfigured face became an affront 
to her. To see her moving about in radiance, 
to hear her playing love-songs in the twilight 
— Schubert’s “ Serenade,” with a new mean- 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 

ing to the passionate phrases — turned her to 
a fury. 

She would go to her room, and, standing by 
the mantel, sink her teeth into the wood, or 
tear her handkerchief and moan. And — those 
pearls! She had no pearls. Twenty times she 
was on the point of commanding their return 
as too expensive, a most unfitting gift to a 
young girl. But she had sagacity enough to 
know that both would have thought such an 
objection ridiculous from her, whose life was 
so whimsically unconventional, and who was 
at all times such a nice appraiser of the cost 
of gifts. She feared to betray herself. So 
Ruth wore the pearls to the countess’s dance. 

Mrs. Dakon had always thought her very 
pretty and fascinating, but never a beauty like 
herself. To-night there was a splendor wrap- 
ping the girl that was amazing. She was a 
magnificent young creature, whose illusions 
seemed to make a glow about her. A smile 
hovered about her warmly colored nicked lips; 
her eyes held a deep light; her face was of a 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


glittering pallor, as if from a hidden radiance. 
The gown she wore was of white tulle, with 
flesh-pink roses lying against its mist and 
twining around her naked shoulders, and 
above the flowers the big, satiny pearls made 
her throat lustrous. 

Mrs. Dakon stared at her and then went to 
her own mirror. Her eyes searched it for com- 
fort, but she found none. Her costly, beauti- 
ful gown was like a shimmering coat of mail 
from which her bust and shoulders rose like 
ivory. There were diamonds in her hair. But 
between them both, the anxious face, the hun- 
gry eyes. She tasted anguish. 

The frosted lamps, alight on each side of the 
marble steps, made two white paths in the 
countess’s garden. Outside the vine-wreathed 
wall, Paris scintillated like a starry sky, but 
here among the trees there were nooks of wood- 
land quiet. 

The second waltz was over. Mrs. Dakon 
and Tom Cautley came down the steps to- 
gether, while a strain of “Artist’s Love ” still 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


quivered from the violins. They passed to a 
seat against the wall, facing the house. For 
the first time in his acquaintance with her, Mrs. 
Dakon had no coquetries or graces. She was 
heavy, cold, unsmiling. She gave him no at- 
tention. Leaning her elbow on her shut fan, 
she sat forward and gazed at the drawing- 
room windows. Tom looked at her cold, grave 
face. 

“ So, the game’s all up with me,” he said 
thoughtfully. 

“ What do you mean? ” she asked, a shrink- 
ing look in her eyes. She dreaded hearing him 
ratify her own thoughts. 

“ You know it is. Don’t you? ” 

“ What do you mean? ” 

“ I mean that Brundage and Ruth ” 

“Don’t say that!” The words were not 
more than a breath, but fierce and bitter. 
“ Don’t say it! ” she said wildly. 

“ Why, I supposed you’d be glad of it,” said 
Tom, with a miserable laugh. “ You’ll find 
few mothers objecting to millionaires for their 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


daughters. Brundage is so rich the vowels of 
his name fairly chink.” 

Mrs. Dakon passed her hand over her lips. 
She found it difficult to speak. 

“ There isn’t a shadow of truth in it,” she 
said at length, in a breathless flurry. “Not the 
faintest shadow. What makes you think so? ” 
she asked, the tone becoming suddenly anxious. 

“ Their faces to-night.” 

“ Is that all? ” 

“ The pearls he gave her, the flowers he sent. 
She carries his roses to-night. They match 
those on her gown. He knew what she was 
going to wear. My poor lilies are left at home. 
If this isn’t enough, then let me say I feel 
it. In fact, I felt it from that first day on the 
balcony. The gods have been good to Law- 
rence Brundage. Men like him. Women love 
him. He’s a man to win.” 

Mrs. Dakon twisted on her seat. Her hands 
fluttered. She kept moistening her lips. 

“ You’re fanciful. You’re absurd. Ruth’s 
a child to Lawrence Brundage, just a little 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


child. You don’t know what you’re saying. 
Why, it’s funny, it’s really funny. Such a 
thing couldn’t be. It couldn’t be.” 

“ Couldn’t it? There are all the elements 
of possibility in it,” he said bitterly, “ just be- 
cause he is what he is, and just because she’s 
Ruth.” 

The countess’s nephew, an officer in sky-blue, 
found them out and bore Mrs. Dakon away 
for the dance just forming. Tom waited, and 
then decided to “ cut it.” To watch Ruth 
dancing with Brundage, with a look on her 
face never called there by him, was intolerable. 
He found his hat and left the place. 

From the Rue de Chaillot he walked down 
until he reached the Jardin de Paris. At a 
table under the trees he had a liqueur and 
many cigarettes. But he didn’t see the stars 
above the trees nor the lamps among them, nor 
hear the sugary voices of various brightly 
dressed young women, who seemed anxious to 
make his a solitude a deux. 

In fancy he saw himself dead and really 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


looking very handsome, with Ruth weeping 
remorsefully over his coffin, wringing her 
hands and wishing she had been kinder to him 
before it was too late. This picture made 
him feel unutterably sorry for himself as a 
dead man, but it had a dreary satisfaction 
of its own, since by it Ruth was to love him, 
though too late. Tom was very young. 

At the countess’s the dance swung on. 
After a fourth waltz, a thing he had not done 
for ten years, Lawrence brought Ruth into the 
garden. He folded a scarf of chiffon around 
her and looked steadily into her raised eyes, 
his lingering touch on her cool shoulders. 
There was a pagan joy of life in her face. A 
magnetism that words would have profaned 
enfolded them. They walked on in silence to 
a seat shut in by bushes covered with yellow, 
twinkling flowers that poured a delicate fra- 
grance into the night. 

He took her hand and drew her to the seat. 
Her palm throbbed against his like the beat- 
ing of her heart. She was under a spell which 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 

led her to a foreordained end. She could not 
have broken the silence between them by a 
breath. The cry of his need of her was all 
that his lips could speak. 

The words came at last. He did not look 
at her, but he held her hand as he would the 
help that was to keep him from sinking to 
certain death. When the last, halting, pas- 
sionate syllable of that prayer left his lips he 
turned his eyes to hers. 

Her face was bending nearer, her lips were 
parted. Without a word she kissed him. The 
happiness of it beggared every sensation of 
his life. He was as a god throned. Life was 
perfect. 


209 


CHAPTER XVIII 


Mrs. D ako^s face had acquired a curious 
expression. It boded something important. 
The eyes were inquiring, the lips grim. With- 
out appearing to, she kept a close watch on 
Ruth. Something had happened, of that slie 
felt sure, for Ruth’s joy was too passionate 
not to betray itself in signs. She was restless ; 
or she would sit apart, dreaming; often her 
face wore an unconscious smile. 

Two days after the ball, when Mrs. Dakon 
returned from her drive at half past six 
o’clock, she saw Lawrence just driving from 
her doors. He had called ; they had seen each 
other alone. She was enraged, yet knew she 
must be silent. She caught up her skirts and 
fairly ran up the stairs. Etienne was just en- 
210 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 

tering, and held open the door for her, with- 
out her having to ring. She rushed in, but 
with a stealthy quiet. Ruth was on the bal- 
cony. As she peered at her through the rose 
silk curtains, she saw her wave her hand. 

The gesture turned her flesh cold as she 
remembered a day, long ago, when she, poised 
to renounce everything because of love for 
this man, had stood on the dusty country road 
and waved good-by to him. Venom poured 
into her heart, and as her keen, scared eyes 
watched her daughter still, she saw her slip 
something shining into her bosom. It was a 
ring. 

When Ruth came into the salon , her mother 
was in her room, taking off her hat. Ruth 
could see her as she passed down the hall to 
dress for dinner, and called out a greeting: 

“ Hello, Noddy! ” 

She longed to tell her mother. She was 
burning for the moment when she could fling 
herself upon her heart and whisper her glori- 
ous secret. Lawrence had made her promise 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


to let him see her mother first, and he was com- 
ing to-morrow. 

They did not dine together. Mrs. Dakon 
complained of a headache, and, after her 
habit, when she had headaches, whether ficti- 
tious or real, she barricaded herself in her 
room with her smelling-salts, a hot-water bottle 
and her maid in attendance. Every sound had 
to be muffled. No callers were to be admitted. 

Ruth endured the lamp -lit salon and the 
silence as long as she could. Her blood was 
tingling and called for action. She felt 
stifling there. After pacing up and down a 
while, she put on a white silk coat over her 
low gown, and a hat with roses bending down 
its brim, and went up to Professor Gun- 
ning’s. Perhaps he would take her out. She 
must have space, air, movement; she must feel 
the breeze on her face, feel the rush of the 
city which held Lawrence as one of its atoms. 
To the whir of the electric bell, however, came 
a servant, who said his master was out. Ruth 
came slowly down the stairs, paused at her own 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


apartment, and then, flinging the reins to the 
impulse which goaded her, went rapidly down 
to the street-door. 

She felt a wildness in her blood. The 
shadowy, quiet avenue, with the lights of the 
Rond Point flashing and winking at a little 
distance, invited her to follow her caprice. 
She had never been alone on a Paris street 
after dark, and the sensation as she walked 
to the curb was sheer, wilful joy, as tingling 
as a draught of wine. When a dawdling fiacre 
came in sight she hailed it. 

“ Auoc boulevards !” she said, mimicking 
the nasal voice and burry pronunciation popu- 
larly supposed by Europeans to be the only 
true American accent, while laughter bubbled 
within her. She did this for a purpose. Ruth 
knew the French point of view about Ameri- 
can demoiselles. They might do almost any- 
thing and not be misjudged. The French 
gave them up as unsolvable riddles, and 
treated them with much outward politeness, 
much inward criticism. 

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TIME , TJ/tf COMEDIAN 


She knew this cocker , who repeated “ Aux 
boulevards ” after her with an informing air 
which corrected her pronunciation, would pilot 
her safely, be amazed at nothing, and deliver 
her home again with as much respect as he 
would an intricate explosive he did not under- 
stand. 

“ He thinks I’m mad, anyway, so I might 
as well take off my hat and be happy,” Ruth 
thought, in a spirit of mischief. 

Alone in the open carriage, feeling an inde- 
pendence and joy that made her toes nervous, 
she was driven down the Rue de Rivoli to the 
Rue Royale and thence to the boulevards. 
Here the summer crowd was thick; the lights 
were spitting among the trees ; there was music 
near and far; the loungers were packed at 
the tables under the awnings; the kiosks were 
pillars of golden light; the fronts of theaters 
were squares of electric brilliants; and as she 
flung her head back, above it all, over the big, 
gray houses was the tranquil, violet sky, misty 
with stars. 


214 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


Sharp breaths of pleasure ran through 
Ruth. She was a truant, a vagabond. The 
memory of another night came to her, when 
she had also flung off the burden of the con- 
ventions, parental law, and a galling respect- 
ability. She was seven years old then, and 
her brain was charged with the fairy lore her 
father used to read to her. Fairies came out 
in the moonlight when the big clock on the vil- 
lage church boomed twelve. They made lad- 
ders of the pearls of dew on the rose-bushes. 
They had their flower-petal feasts on the 
mushrooms that grew in the cold, wet shadows. 
They plucked stars for their wands and 
capered on moon-rays. 

All this she had been told many, many times. 
The thought had made her brain spin, made 
her heart jump; and yet mortals like her father 
and mother, her nurse and Hannah, could shut 
the doors on the moonlight, and in dark rooms, 
like big boxes, go fast asleep. They did not 
care for the fairy carnival in the dews and 
moon-mists. They did not want to see the lit- 
215 


TIME THE COMEDIAN 


tie, glittering things come creeping, creeping, 
creeping from the unknown places where they 
hid by day. They did not want to watch them 
meet, join hands, and spin around with fairy 
joy. Wonder of wonders! they did not want 
to hear a fairy’s laugh, which must be as tiny 
and tender as the sound that would come if 
a hyacinth could tinkle. 

Ruth remembered herself sitting up in the 
dark, her eyes round and rigid, and there de- 
claring silent anarchy. They did not want to 
see these wonderful things? She did. With- 
out more pause, she had tumbled, a soft, 
downy bundle, from her cot and gathered up 
her nightgown, which was very long, until 
she reached the bedroom door, where she had 
to drop it to use both hands in turning the 
knob. With the caution and quiet of an in- 
quisitive mouse, she reached the lower floor. 
She knew she could not open the door, but 
she remembered a small pantry window not 
far from the ground that could be reached by 
climbing among bread boxes on the shelf. 

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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


With care and difficulty she carried a chair 
to the shelf, pushed up the little window, and 
now, breathing hard from the fatigue of her 
labors, climbed from it and hung by her hands. 

Ruth laughed now as she recalled the sud- 
den terror that seized her and kept her hang- 
ing there. “ Suppose, when I let go, I come 
plump on a fairy!” It was a terrifying 
thought, hut she chanced it, and then ma- 
king soft, cooing sounds of comfort, searched 
among the grasses lest one gauzy little darling 
should be prostrated there with a broken wing. 
She remembered how, when she looked up and 
saw her own garden with the neighbor’s pas- 
ture beyond, both quite different from their 
daytime selves in the moon-wash and shadow 
quiverings, what a naughty, reckless ecstasy 
was hers, and how difficult it was to keep back 
the shriek her untrammeled soul wanted to 
send forth as, in her bare feet, she raced 
through the wet grass to look for the fairy 
revelers of this wonderland. 

She was as much of a rebel to-night, her 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


senses just as turbulent. She might have to 
pay some price for her escapade to-morrow, 
as she did for that seven-year-old lawlessness, 
for she had been found by her father in the 
dawn, asleep against an old well, the be- 
ginnings of croup in her throat; but Ruth 
flicked her brows and felt happy, as the fiacre 
jogged on. 

When the Place de la Republique was 
reached the cocker asked her if she wanted to 
continue on to the Place Bastille. No, she 
thought not. The fiacre was stopped while she 
pondered. This probably was all she might 
dare do alone, and it was a long drive back. 
She told him to turn and retrace his way along 
the boulevards, still mimicking a labored pro- 
nunciation and twang. The journey back was 
just as pleasant, but it was marred by the 
thought that she was going home, and it was 
only half -past ten. How little a girl dare do, 
after all! 

But as she passed a cafe not far from the 
Madeleine, she saw Tom sitting on the outer 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


edge at a table, alone. His empty glass was 
beside him, his straw hat back on his head. He 
was hugging one knee and smoking. In a 
twinkling Ruth had given the order to stop. 
She put her hat on discreetly and made a dart 
through the crowd to his side. 

“ Tom,” she said, and he looked up with a 
most unbelieving stare, “ come with me. 
Come quickly.” 

She raced back, and, without a word, he fol- 
lowed her into the fiacre , which went on very 
slowly. 

“ What’s up? Is your mother ill? ” 

“ No, nothing’s wrong,” she said, her fin- 
gers clutching his sleeve. “ Everything’s 
right, Tom. I’ve run away.” 

“ Ruth — what can — ” he stammered. 

“ I’ve run away for just three hours,” she 
said. “ Now do you understand? For nearly 
twelve years I’ve lived here and have curbed 
many a longing for a wandering alone, in the 
night, not tucked under anybody’s arm, but 
alone, alone. Well, I’ve had it, Tom. I’ve 
is 219 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


been tooling about for an hour and a half 
seeing the sights. There’s just another hour 
and a half to be disposed of. You shall enter- 
tain me. Tell the cocker to take us to the Bal 
Bullier. It’s Thursday night.” 

“ I won’t,” said Tom, with a stolid serious- 
ness. “ You must be mad. Of all places, Bul- 
lier! You’d probably run into a dozen of the 
fellows there. It would be bad enough with 
a chaperon — but alone ! ” 

“ Yes, you’re right. Then we’ll go down 
the Boul’ Miche’, and you’ll let me have just a 
blissful ten minutes at a little table with you? ” 

Tom was grave, and beyond the reach of 
entreaties. 

“ You’re not going to that side at all. I’ll 
take you about on this side, if you insist. 
We’ll go over Clichy way, though why you 
want to see all this sort of disreputable thing 
I can’t understand.” 

“ My dear Thomas,” said Ruth gaily, as the 
bewildered cocker again turned his horse and 
went back along the boulevards, “ I don’t 
220 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


know what sort of thing I want to see; I only 
know I want to see ! " 

“ You’re in a mad mood to-night,” he said, 
looking at her inquiringly. “ Do you mind 
in the least knowing that under that cocker s 
glazed hat, in whatever he has that does serv- 
ice as a brain, is the rooted idea that you are 
not respectable? ” 

Ruth laughed with the frankest delight. 

“ Oh, I never thought I’d have such a de- 
licious moment! I wish I could see his face. 
Poor man, it’s a shame to confuse his moral 
values, isn’t it? ” 

As they turned into the narrow, up-hill Rue 
Blanche, Tom sighed heavily. 

“ You’re in the seventh heaven over some- 
thing. What is it? What makes you so 
happy, Ruth? ” 

“ Everything,” she said evasively. “ Being 
here with you ” 

“ Is it that? Is it really that? ” he asked, 
the love leaping to his voice, as he seized her 
hand. 


221 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


‘No, it isn’t,” she said in a subdued tone, 
and drew her hand away very decidedly. “ I 
shouldn’t have said so.” 

His face darkened and grew sad. 

“ It isn’t that at all, not in the least — is 
it?” he asked, after a pause. 

“ Now, Tom, please say no more. Don’t 
begin! Don’t spoil my evening,” said Ruth 
angrily. 

“ Don’t begin? You infer that I’m a nui- 
sance, that I bore you,” he said as hotly. 
“Yet you’re not blameless. You’ve encour- 
aged me.” 

Ruth had not counted on this turn to the 
conversation. She looked annoyed, resigned, 
and sank back mute. It was too bad Tom’s in- 
sistence should spoil the dreaming of Law- 
rence which companioned her. 

“ I’ve never encouraged you,” she said 
quietly, with chilling distinctness. “I’ve al- 
ways taken pains to tell you the truth — that I 
feel friendship for you, and nothing else.” 

“ Oh, yes, you’ve told me that. Rut your 
222 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 

eyes have sometimes had quite another lan- 
guage.’ ’ He leaned toward her abruptly and 
spoke entreatingly. “ Really, Ruth, you have 
looked at me sometimes as if you loved me. 
Are you sure — are you sure you don’t? ” 

Only a native kindness of heart kept her 
from laughing her amaze. 

“ I’m quite sure I don’t, and that I never 
shall,” she said. 

Nothing more was said for a few moments. 

“ Can you say you care nothing for Law- 
rence Brundage? ” he asked, in quick tones of 
arraignment. 

Ruth lifted her head high. 

“I’m saying nothing at all. I’m treat- 
ing the question with the silence its impudence 
deserves,” she said coldly. 

“ The silence is sufficient. You needn’t tell 
me,” Tom burst out, and continued wildly. 
“You love him. He loves you. I know it. 
I’ve seen it coming. I believe he’s told you 
about it, and it’s this that makes you happy to- 
night. I said he loves you, but I should have 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


said he feels for you what he calls love. He 
couldrit love you.” 

“ Couldn’t he? ” she asked, still coldly. 

“ He couldn’t love you as I do.” 

“ You rather block your own perspective, 
naturally.” 

“ Well, sneer as you like. It’s true. He’s 
well past forty, and his heart is like an urn 
of ashes. He’s a tomb of memories ” 

“Aren’t your similes rather graveyardy? 
Surely you can do better.” 

“ I know his sort,” Tom continued miser- 
ably, running amuck in his despair. “ Tired 
eyes, grayish hair, bored manner, purple pasts 
— a round dozen of them — and the cheek to 
ask a sweet, pure girl to take him as a hus- 
band!” 

“ The sweet, pure girl can refuse him if she 
doesn’t want him, you know.” Her cold calm 
was now perfect. 

Tom had been chewing the cud of misery 
for days. He could not be politic. His pain 
swept him on. 


224 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


“ When he’s broken your heart — as he 
will, mind you, as he will ” — he choked — 
“ you’ll remember how I’ve loved you.” They 
had reached the top of the steep, cobble- 
stoned street. “ Here’s Clichy, now,” he said 
mournfully. “All the cafes are disreputable. 
There’s the Rat Mort, and we’ll pass the 
Moulin Rouge in a minute. This is the sort 
of thing you wanted to see, I suppose? ” 

“ You’ve quite robbed me of any desire to 
see anything but my home,” she said in open 
wrath. “ Tell him to turn back, and to go 
quickly, quickly.” 

Tom obeyed, feeling that a closed gate in 
Ruth’s heart was now locked against him. 

The cocker turned his head and gave them 
one long, eloquent stare of disgust. He had 
been twisting and turning ever since this 
American miss had started, and had been 
hoping for a bock at some cafe where they 
would pause ; but now it was “ Tournez, tour - 
nez , et vite” He beat his horse down the Rue 
Blanche again to muttered curses against all 
22 5 


TIME THE COMEDIAN 

Americans as “ fools, pigs, and dogs of the 
street.” 

Ruth parted from Tom without another 
word than a chill “ Good night.” 


226 


CHAPTER XIX 


Tom kept house with Andy Norton in an 
apartment on the Rue de Medicis, overlooking 
the Luxembourg Gardens. In its courtyard 
there were flowering bushes, and fountains 
in age-mellowed marble basins; and within its 
walls the things that spelled convenience and 
well-being — excellent attendance, bath-rooms, 
and an ascenseur. Tom was one of that mi- 
nute army of fortunates, an art student with a 
large income to pay for the comforts of the 
Philistine. On the top floor, replete with sky- 
lights, he had transformed the big salon into 
an atelier; because he wanted a chum he had 
taken in Andy, who paid a very small share 
of the expenses; a motherly, Normandy peas- 
ant, whose soups were the talk of the ateliers } 
looked after them well. 

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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


After parting from Ruth, Tom had the ex- 
asperated cocker take him home. His heart 
was heavy. He felt his first distaste for life. 
He began to understand the bitter smile he 
had seen flit over the faces of old men when 
he had exulted in existence and had anticipated 
and arranged his future. He was finding out 
that one’s deepest convictions could in a twink- 
ling be dissolved, that striving and hope could 
go for nothing, leaving one aghast before 
one’s helplessness. He had loved Ruth deeply. 
None of the distractions of the Quartier had 
seriously tempted him. The thought of her 
had been his star, his religion, for three 
care-free, confident years, during which he 
had been much to her. Her eyes had often 
unconsciously caressed him, and he had be- 
lieved that she cared for him more than she 
knew. 

Without this hope and belief now, the ef- 
fort of living weighed on him. As the fiacre 
carried him over the river he pondered on 
what might happen within a few months. If 
228 


TIME THE COMEDIAN 


Ruth’s words and looks meant that she was 
going to marry Brundage, he would have to 
hide his desolation from his friends. The 
effort seemed beyond his powers of dissimula- 
tion. It would be better for him to go back 
to America before that happened. Paris, with 
its maddening, glowing memories at every 
turn, would be unendurable without Ruth. 
Yes, he would go home. And after? Well, 
he would live down his disappointment. He 
would not go through life a mourner nor a 
hermit. He would harden his heart, and even- 
tually he would “ get over it.” But though his 
mind spread out this philosophy, he only felt 
the ache of loss. 

As he sat back, his arms crossed, he decided 
to begin the “ getting over ” part of it that 
night. Andy was giving one of his parties. 
Tom usually escaped from them, as they did 
not amuse him, but to-night he would go and 
lose himself there, defy his heart in such a 
scene to hunger for Ruth, his fancy to dream 
of her. To damage his own ideals might be 
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TIME THE COMEDIAN 


a vigorous way of beginning the business of 
forgetting. 

He gave the cocker a pour-boire so large 
that individual decided that though Ameri- 
cans en route could be maddening, their 
finish was generally satisfactory; and ignor- 
ing the dreamy, automatic ascenseur, went up 
the curving, stone stairways to the top. He 
usually covered the steps in bounds. To-night 
he walked in a measured way, his head low- 
ered. All the way up he was conscious of 
Ruth. As he passed the atelier door, behind 
which he heard singing, laughter, the banging 
of the piano, and voices talking in a roistering 
mixture, she walked with him. In his own 
room, as he rebrushed his hair savagely, his 
white face and stormy eyes flashing back at 
him from the glass, she was there, too — she, 
the lost but adored. He went out on the bal- 
cony through the open windows into the 
spring night, the perfume and the silence, but 
he could not stay there, for there most of all 
was Ruth, so close to him she seemed leaning 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 

upon his heart. He had dreamed of her so 
often upon that balcony, sometimes in the 
sparkling mornings before breakfast, when he 
knew that in a few hours he would see her 
at the studio, but more frequently at night 
when the gardens below were massed shadows, 
and the distant boulevard lights made a silver 
haze on the sky. 

A sharp rage against himself stung him like 
a tonic. This was not “ getting over it ” ; this 
was not forgetting. He shoved his hands into 
his pockets, set his mouth, and strode along 
the balcony to the open atelier window. He 
stood outside, unseen, and looked in. Andy’s 
parties, innocent enough in a way, were often 
eccentric to the point of insanity. To-night he 
was at his wildest. It was a costume supper. 
The costumes were all improvised, as were the 
decorations and the manners of the guests. 
Near the big, square table, made of planks, 
stood Tom’s life-size reproduction in plaster 
of the Venus de Milo; she was crowned by a 
red wig and a Paris student’s tall, straight- 
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brimmed hat at a rakish angle, and with these 
she wore a scarlet necktie and a man’s dress- 
coat. Billy Marss was a dancer in spangled 
skirts. Andy was Nero in a sheet, with a 
crown of carrots and a necklace of red pep- 
pers. Cyril Bright was in full football re- 
galia, with a nose mask on. The five girls 
were all models well known in the Quartier, 
all bizarre and beautiful as living posters, ex- 
cept little Angele, who was marvelous in the 
rags of a beggar-boy. Her shock of fair hair 
protruded through a crownless hat, her knees 
showed through hanging patches, her bare 
babyish feet, the most beautiful drawn or 
modeled in Paris, were at the moment flash- 
ing in a fantastic dance to which Nero beat a 
furious tattoo on a toy drum. 

When Tom stepped in without warning, the 
dance and drum-beats ceased, and a howl 
shook the walls. The eight fell upon him. 

" Regardez Respectability! ” Andy yelled, 
and it was a clarion-call to the rest. 

“ A has the Puritan! ” 


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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


They tore his dress-coat from him and rum- 
pled his hair. In a whirl of mad gaiety he was 
forcibly arrayed according to the inspirations 
of the moment: they made an apron of a 
leopard-skin rug, tore a scarlet velvet coat of 
the thirteenth century from the wall, putting 
it on him with the back to the front, and from 
a mass of head-gear of various countries and 
periods a Chinese mandarin’s hat, like a big 
cane mushroom, was selected. Made one of 
the elect in these, his forehead and chin were 
painted sky-blue, he was sprinkled with Cha- 
blis, and christened “An Inhabitant of an Un- 
discovered Country.” 

Tom started in to be a reveler with the de- 
termination of a diligent schoolboy to mem- 
orize the multiplication table. No one laughed 
more, sang with more spirit, or danced more 
wildly than he. It was well known among his 
friends that he had been an object of special 
interest to little Angele. He had dismissed 
the jokes and teasing about her with an indif- 
ferent shrug, and she had never seen him save 
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as a big, quiet, clear-eyed young man who 
posed her, drew her feet, and then with kind- 
ness, but an unassailable remoteness, watched 
her walk off on those same entrancing little 
feet. 

To-night Angele told him he was “ human,” 
as he tossed her high in the dance to the beat of 
“ Viens Poupoule ” or sat beside her on the 
big, cushioned window-seat and whispered 
that she was “ si douce tout-a-fait ,” and that 
no other, surely, save the Blessed Damozel, 
had feet like hers, and various other flattering 
and inaccurate things. 

But all the while his mind was crystal-clear 
and marvelously analytical, and all the while 
his heart was the home of a great pity. Some- 
thing within him was esthetically disturbed ; he 
would have been contemptuous if he had not 
been made sad. As it was, while he played his 
part with some degree of success, he had 
strange thoughts. Angele was lovely, but 
when she coughed, which she did often and 
rackingly, he shivered. Nor could he enjoy 
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the charm of her little, infantile face, because 
he saw the wan cheeks beneath the paint, and 
knew that fever and kohl made her eyes so 
bright. 

Dare-devil merriment sped the night on, but 
he, while a seeming part of it, pondered on 
earth’s weariness. He knew so well the se- 
cret cares and heartaches of these poor girls. 
They were not hard, evil, or bad-intentioned. 
They were kind-hearted, generous, and simple, 
following their affections lawlessly without 
understanding, introspection, or remorse, the 
result of unique conditions in an unique en- 
vironment, for all the world like little squir- 
rels frisking and nibbling without fear of the 
morrow. 

But beyond the laughter, feasting, and 
light-hearted diablerie , Tom thought of the 
to-morrow waiting for little Angele. Her 
future was a dogging shadow that only he saw 
that night. She was ill, she was poor; she was 
living in a way to hasten death; she would in 
a year or so be too ill to pose; she would be 
16 . 235 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


cared for miserably by her poor comrades; she 
would die. Strange thoughts at a time like 
this, while she laid her burning fingers on his, 
and said, through the smoke of her cigarette: 

“Ah, how I am happy to-night! ” 

At three o’clock the party came to an hilari- 
ous finish. Tom wrapped Angele in a monk’s 
robe and took her, and Sylvie who lived with 
her, home in a fiacre . At their door Sylvie went 
up first, and Angele lingered over her good-by 
to Tom. She expected him to kiss her, but the 
grip of his hands upon her shoulders was an 
epitome of an immature fatherhood. 

“ Do you know what I’m going to do, 
Angele? ” 

“Eh, what — big boy?” she murmured, 
touching her lips wistfully to his fingers. 

“I’m going to send you into the country. 
Yes, you’re going to Mere Vivier’s, and drink 
all the warm milk you want right from the 
cow, and roll in the grass — with Betou.” 

She started, and looked up at Tom with a 
wild unbelief. 


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“ What do you mean? ” 

“Id heard you’d sent Betou there, and that 
you were slaving like a dog to pay for him. 
That’s why your cough’s so bad; you’ve been 
half -starving yourself.” 

Betou was Angele’s two-year-old son, val- 
ued as she valued her eyesight. She only saw 
him once a month now, for Mere Vivier’s 
was twenty-eight miles from Paris, and many 
francs were consumed in the going. 

“ You’re to pack up to-morrow,” Tom went 
on, “ and when you get to the farmhouse 
you’re to rest, and play with your baby, and 
lie in the sun, and do all sorts of foolish, coun- 
try things. You won’t have to think of 
money, you understand, Angele. I’m attend- 
ing to all that. You’re just to write me how 
you’re getting on, and how much it costs.” 

By this time Angele was sobbing against 
him. She was overcome by the realization of 
how tired she was, and how very sweet it would 
be to lie in the sun on the grass with Betou, 
and kiss and kiss his pouting, rosy mouth until 
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she was weary of its very sweetness. She 
pressed Tom’s hand to her heart in pitiful joy. 

“ How wonderful! Oh, mon Dieul how 
good! How I adore you — you are so good, 
so sweet, big boy! I love you next to Betou 
— and you love me, too, your poor Angele? ” 

Tom held her off with a shy, brusque laugh. 

“ We’re not talking of love, Angele. 
You’re just a baby, like Betou, and I’m your 
physician.” 

“ But you’ll come and see me sometimes,” 
she purred. 

“ Never,” he said lightly and with a smile; 
but she knew he meant it. “Now go to bed, 
rest to-morrow, and get ready.” 

He picked her up as if she were a child and 
carried her up four flights of old, trembling 
stairs to the door of her room, and she sobbed 
in a spent way, with her lips against his hand. 

So Tom’s night of revelry ended. He pon- 
dered on its futility as he walked back in the 
dawn. His love for Ruth had formed an inner 
citadel in his nature, and he had fancied he 
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could so easily overthrow it. The light loves 
of the Quartier , which he viewed as leniently 
as his comrades, and which were an accepted 
phase of the life, did not attract him. He was 
neither judge nor critic, but the love of one 
woman consumed him, and that woman was 
Ruth. 

The gardens, which he skirted on the way 
back to his apartment, lay dream-like and pure 
in the pallid light; the damp, sweet air was 
cool, like a nun’s kiss; the birches beyond the 
palings were straight, silver lines in the dusk; 
Paris was sleeping; it was the hour of inno- 
cence; and as he walked, only his footsteps 
breaking the silence, he “ invited his soul.” 
The night had matured him. His turbulent 
despair was dead. Renunciation had written 
its message in his gray face and calm eyes. His 
nature seemed reborn, and peace had come to 
him out of the travail. 

Among his letters at breakfast there was 
one that seemed like a hand beckoning to him 
to make a seam between his present life and a 
239 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


new one, and which was curiously in keeping 
with his mood, so charged with a sense of 
finality. 

“ I got off at Queenstown,” it commenced, 
“ and I’m over here in Dublin, you infernal 
idiot ! I want you to come here and do Ireland 
with me in a jaunting-car, and listen to the 
horse-sense I’m prepared to reel off to you. 
I’m going to make you a business proposition 
about giving up that beggarly artist idea of 
great aims and ideals and all that muck, and 
coming back to New York to be a sane citizen 
and my junior partner. Think it over; and, 
anyway, come and let’s have a look at you. If 
you leave me here alone, I swear one of these 
blue-eyed colleens will marry me against my 
will. I’m at the Shelburne, and your room is 
ready. Leslie.” 

“ I’m going to Dublin,” he said to Andy, 
and added a shock to that surprise; “I 
shouldn’t wonder if you’d have to look up 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


another berth pretty soon, old man. I may 
leave for New York shortly after I come back 
— may go into business with my cousin.” 

“ This is — so sudden,” said Andy, with a 
wan smile and a mind-picture of the attic he 
saw himself en route for. “ What the devil 
makes you think of such horrors — New York 
and business? " 

“ If I told you all, sonny,” said Tom, 
“ you’d know as much as I do.” 


241 


CHAPTER XX 


After cafe au lait the next morning, Ruth 
went to her mother’s room. Mrs. Dakon was 
sitting up among the pillows. Her face had 
been hastily “ arranged her hair, which had 
been brushed by her maid for an hour, hung in 
a crisp, shining cloud around her shoulders. 
Ruth could see that her coffee had grown cold, 
and she was making a pretense of eating a but- 
tered roll. 

“ Noddy, you look ill still,” she said, and 
put her arm around her mother’s shoulders. 
“ Is it more than a headache? A night’s sleep 
usually sets you up.” 

“ Yes, it’s more than a headache.” The 
words were cold, brusque, and she pettishly 
pushed Ruth’s arm away. “ It’s a heartache 
as well.” 


242 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


“ Has something happened that I don’t 
know about? ” Ruth asked, in gentle concern. 

“No. You know more about it than any- 
body else,” her mother flashed, and turned 
around fully in the bed, her face as repelling 
as an evil mask. 

Ruth shrank at the look. It was a revela- 
tion before which her heart trembled. That 
her mother’s eyes could hold that look for her! 
The meaning of it ? Her mind groped for the 
truth vainly. She did not think of Lawrence, 
for it seemed to her that a knowledge of her 
secret engagement could only bring a mater- 
nal chiding, a passing reproach for her silence; 
but this expression which chilled her blood was 
open enmity, jealousy, hate. 

“ Noddy — Noddy, I don’t know what you 
mean.” 

“Don’t you? Oh, you can lie, can’t you? 
Yes, with your innocent face you can lie, and 
play a deep game and hold your tongue. 
When I think of all the years you’ve fooled 
me!” 


243 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


Ruth looked at her narrowly, convinced for 
the moment that her mother was giving the 
first evidence of sudden insanity; but the ex- 
planation came almost as the fear was born. 

“ This ! ” cried Mrs. Dakon, drawing a let- 
ter from beneath her pillow. “This! Yes, 
it’s a letter to you, and I opened it. It came 
last night when you were out, and I opened 
it. Your anger is nothing to me. I had a 
right to open it, a right to know if my daughter 
were carrying on an intrigue with a man like 
Lawrence Brundage. Well, I soon found 
out. He’s your lover, yet not a word said to 
me. Of course, you were ashamed or afraid. 
Or probably you were ashamed and he was 
afraid. Take the letter. It’s not the first of 
the sort he’s written. It won’t be the last, 
either, though I’ll wager the next won’t be 
to you.” 

She had sprung from the bed. The torrent 
of words, her wild eyes, her trembling hands, 
frightened Ruth so that her anger at this in- 
fringement of her rights was submerged. 

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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


This, her first love-letter, desecrated, wounded 
her as if she had seen a helpless little child 
belonging to her brutally maimed. Without 
opening it, and with its torn edges against her 
palm, she looked steadily at her mother. 

“You had no right to open my letter — not 
the slightest. But I’ll pass over that. What 
have you discovered? That I’m engaged to 
marry Lawrence Brundage. He came yes- 
terday to tell you, but you were not here. He’s 
coming to-day. When he asked me to say 
nothing about our engagement until he had 
seen you, I consented. I longed to tell you, 
but I kept my promise to him. Was that any 
crime? You look and act as if I were guilty 
of something unspeakable.” 

Mrs. Dakon sank into a chair and closed her 
eyes. Ruth flew to her, fell on her knees, and 
wrapped her in her arms with fierce affection. 

“Darling, don’t look so. Oh, don’t! It 
breaks my heart, and I can’t see why you 
should. I thought you might have some ob- 
jection to Lawrence because he is so much 
245 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


older than I am, but not a serious one, for, 
oh, Noddy — mother, mother ! — I love him so.” 

Mrs. Dakon looked up and her rage was 
gone. There was a dead calm under the heavy 
lids, a fixity of purpose at the corners of the 
usually indeterminate mouth. 

“And he is your choice. My God! ” 

“ What has he done? ” Ruth cried, drawing 
back and speaking in anguish. “ Oh, you look 
at me strangely. If he has done something 
to make you shudder like this, surely he 
wouldn’t have been here as your friend. You 
seemed to like him. Tell me what you’re 
thinking of? What has he done? ” 

“ He’s coming here to-day, you say? ” she 
said, as if Ruth had not spoken. 

“ Yes, at four o’clock.” 

“ Well, I’ll see him.” 

“ Noddy,” Ruth seized her hands passion- 
ately and faltered, her face very white, “ this 
means so much to me. I — I — love him so ! It 
almost frightens me. But if he has really 
done something — if he’s not fit — if — Oh, tell 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


me! I know he hasn’t led a good life. He 
has confessed that his misdeeds, his sins, have 
been many; but I told him I would not think 
of the past at all. He’s different now. I 
know he loves me. Oh, there’s no doubt of 
that! What is it — what is it that makes you 
look so? Won’t you tell me what you’re think- 
ing of? I’ve a right to know.” 

“ You shall know. Make no mistake about 
that,” said her mother, with a laugh that was 
ugly. “No doubt he’ll try to muzzle me. But 
I promise you, you’ll hear it all after I’ve seen 
him. Then you can make your choice.” She 
pushed the girl from her in a spasm of rage. 
“And doubtless you’ll decide to forgive him 
this, as well as the rest. We’ll see.” 

In her own room Ruth sat down, her elbow 
on her knee. She was startled and as white 
as her linen gown. There was a cloud steal- 
ing across her sun. She heard the sound of a 
coming storm. Would it pass without mortal 
hurt to her, or would it be a hurricane leaving 
disaster in its wake? 


247 


TIME THE COMEDIAN 


Her mother’s words might mean one thing 
which had suddenly become possible to her un- 
derstanding — jealousy — because she was her- 
self in love with Lawrence. The thought 
grieved Ruth, but she was helpless before the 
inevitable. But her mother’s look was dif- 
ferent. There was more than covetousness 
and petulance in that. She had not believed 
such an expression possible to the pretty, doll- 
like features. It was terrible, as if lightnings 
had leaped into the eyes of the Mask of 
Tragedy. 

Lawrence’s letter, forgotten, was still 
clutched in her hand. She opened it, feeling 
.that its words, gazed at by other eyes, had lost 
their bloom. 

“My Darling Little Love: I always 
think of you as ‘ little,’ although you’re not, 
really. I could wish you were smaller, so that 
your ear would rest just where you’d hear 
the heart that is beating so hard for you. 
What have you done to me, dear witch? 

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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


You’ve given me new eyes, for the world I 
look on is all beauty. You were so sweet to 
me to-day, I had to write you this. 

“ I’ve been dining with some men, and they 
found me stupid. No wonder. While they 
were talking of everything under the sun, my 
brain ^was thinking just one word: ‘Ruth — 
Ruth — Ruth.’ I had to get by myself and 
send you these few lines. Darling, how dearly 
I love you, and how happy we’re going to 
be! I’m like a twilight after a day of storm, 
and you are a beautiful, sunny morning; still 
I’ll make you love me more each day. Oh, 
Ruth, when I think of being in Japan and 
Egypt with you, of seeing your eyes look for 
the first time at the things that have grown 
meaningless to me, but which will become radi- 
ant again with you beside me, I feel as if life 
were just beginning. 

“ Dear, you’re the sweetest of girls, the 
sauciest of rogues. You teased me horribly 
to-day, but I loved you dreadfully. Good 
night, my darling Ruth. Your kisses haunt 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


me, and make me so happy and so miserable 
■ — happy because you have kissed me, miser- 
able because you are not with me now. 

“ Lawrence.” 

She read it unsmilingly, with troubled 
heart-beats. A doubt, whose face was as yet 
unfamiliar to her, robbed the words of sin- 
cerity. If the look in her mother’s eyes meant 
truth? With tenacious, passionate love, she 
held her idol to her, her heart all flame and 
hunger — and yet, her mother's eyes? 

She went to the studio, posting a note to 
Lawrence on the way : 

“ Noddy knows about us. She seems dis- 
tracted by it. I’ve never seen anything more 
awful than her face, as she talked of it. She 
will see you this afternoon at four o’clock. I 
won’t be in till late, so you can have a good, 
long talk with her and perhaps conquer her 
objection, whatever it is. I don’t understand 
what could possibly affect her this way. I feel 
frightened and all at sea — but I love you.” 

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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 

Mrs. Dakon had not moved from the 
couch where she had flung herself after Ruth’s 
departure until it was past two. With her 
arms flung over her head and her narrowed 
eyes fixed on one spot on the wall, she was 
living over her life in thought. 

She saw it in a series of scenes: The years 
on a Southern plantation till she was seven- 
teen; her marriage to Anthony; the crashing 
of her brilliant prospects; Ruth’s birth; the 
life at Bate’s Crossing; her visit to New York 
and meeting with Lawrence ; memories of that 
time of rapture which even in her present 
jealous pain quickened and warmed her heart; 
the last night at The Lawns; his beseeching, 
passionate, compelling letters afterward; that 
day in the wood; Anthony’s suicide; her re- 
morse and slowly reviving hope after it, when 
she waited for Lawrence; the tortured days 
when she waited in vain; his letter casting her 
off; her almost fatal illness after it; her re- 
covery and her acceptance of his money ; lastly, 
her life in Paris as Ruth grew from childhood, 
17. 251 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


one year much like another, until she saw his 
face again; the rebirth of her love for him; 
her hopes and her belief that her brightest 
dream was at last to be realized ; the appalling 
knowledge that he loved and had won her 
child. 

A tempest of self-pity swept over her. She 
burst into hard sobs, beating her hands against 
her bosom. The futility of revenge! She 
could, she thought, prevent Ruth’s marrying 
him, but he was lost to her. That fact was the 
bitterest drop of this most bitter drink. Re- 
venge was a poor thing, but it was all that 
was left to her. 

She rang for her maid and ordered a good 
breakfast. Her physical weakness craved the 
food and wine, though its flavor was lost to her, 
and by degrees she felt her blood grow warm, 
and the solid earth under her feet again, in- 
stead of shifting sands. 

At three o’clock she began her preparations 
for Lawrence. She wanted to look her best. 
It would be a victory of a sort to make him 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


realize that she whom he passed by was, never- 
theless, a beautiful woman. Her masseuse 
had arrived. The woman covered a table with 
bottles and bowls of water, and then began 
the secret rite of making up Mrs. Dakon’s 
face. 

First the tears were sponged away with 
orange-flower water that had a little benzoin 
in it. When this was dry, the face and neck 
were rolled with a rubber contrivance until the 
blood danced under the fine skin. Then came 
the application of creams, oils, perfumes, each 
in turn from numbered bottles. These were 
magically rubbed in by the woman’s velvet, 
practised, perfumed finger-tips. At this point 
Mrs. Dakon’s face looked like freshly ironed 
flesh with the fire on it. Small pieces of ice 
were then pressed to the muscles, and now 
Mrs. Dakon looked like one in the first redness 
of freezing. When this glow disappeared, her 
face was ready for its Parisian complexion. 

A white paste was rubbed into the pores and 
most of it left on; it had the appearance of 
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TIME THE COMEDIAN 


melted cream which softly hardened by con- 
tact with the air. A fine powder was put on 
over it with a piece of medicated cotton, and 
this was applied deftly, delicately, until the 
effect was fine, white skin without any par- 
ticles of powder showing. Lashes and brows 
were cleaned with an infinitesimal brush and 
a dark brown cosmetic touched to them. The 
lips were ruddied with cerise, the nostrils and 
lobes of the ears colored the faintest pink. 

The masseuse departed, and Mrs. Dakon 
remained with her head thrown back, her eyes 
closed, while her maid came and tossed up some 
of the bright hair into little billows on her 
head, using a hot iron to wave a section of it 
all around the front and back, and finished by 
drawing this up to join the coquettish topknot. 
Her little head was now a complete mass of 
glittering ripples. The work was done. 

She sat up and looked at herself, with 
earnest eyes demanding the truth of her glass, 
and the blackest despair she had ever known 
poured into her veins. She was all white and 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


gold and pink, but she looked old. She looked 
fifty instead of forty. Lotions and powders 
were futile while her cheeks had hollows in 
them picked out by the wrath of a hungry 
heart; while her eyes were dull like pebbles, 
and the hideous, downward semicircles of bit- 
terness at each side of her mouth were there, 
not to be wiped out by human touch. 

She sat for a long pause, staring at herself, 
her freshly darkened lashes wet. She looked 
elderly, made-up. In the white lace tea-gown 
spread on the bed, she would look a fool. A 
moan crushed its way through her lips. A 
week’s suffering had worked this change in 
her. It was another item in the scale of her 
revenge against Lawrence. She hated him in 
that disillusioned moment more intensely than 
she had ever loved him. Her face was dark 
as she rang for Etienne and ordered him to 
draw the silk shades in the salon . 

Lawrence came upon the stroke of four and 
was shown in. The sun was completely shut 
out by the rose silk except for a tempered 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


haze. The place was as silent as a church. 
The half-light and stillness stifled him. He 
felt his heart pounding against his side. He 
looked for Etienne, but as he was gone he 
went over, impetuously opened a window, and 
let in a flood of air and sunlight that revived 
him like a drink of cold water. Into this 
glare Mrs. Dakon stepped a moment later, 
blinking like a cat. She gave him a look of 
hate, and flung the window back. 

“ My head is aching,” she said shortly. 

“ I beg your pardon,” said Lawrence. “ It 
seemed close here. Can’t I get you some- 
thing? ” 

“ No, thank you. Sit down. I sha’n’t de- 
tain you long.” She arranged herself in a 
chair with her back to the window, fingering 
the lace on her gown nervously. “ I know why 
you’ve come to-day.” 

For the first time in their acquaintance she 
saw fear in his look, saw his fingers tremble. 

“ Before you say anything, let me plead 

my case,” he began. “ Nora ” 

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TIME THE COMEDIAN 


“ There is no case to plead,” she said in 
angry contempt. “ There are just these facts: 
You want to marry my daughter. You 
can’t.” 

“ Your objections ” 

“You know what they are. We won’t go 
into them. J ust let me ask you this : Did you 
tell Ruth your story and mine? No, you 
didn’t. I knew that this morning. You won 
her by fraud. You’ll never have her.” 

“ You can’t mean that. You can’t mean, 
Nora,” he said, going to her and taking a chair 
beside her, “ that you’re going to count up the 
old score against me. You don’t know how 
I’ve regretted that. I was wrong, I admit — 
selfish — cruel, if you like. But I did make 
amends, didn’t I ? Can you say that I haven’t 
brought any happiness to you? Can you say 
that these years of — of — competence here, in 
surroundings that are suitable, in a city you 
love, have not wiped out a little of the old 
mistake ” 

“Mistake!” she sneered furiously. 

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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


“ The old wrong, then. I don’t want to 
mince words and spare myself.” 

“Yes, I took your money. Fling that fact 
in my face, if you like. I had to take it. I 
have to still. I’ve always been ashamed of it.” 

“ Well, admitting all the past,” he said, 
meeting her gaze, “ can’t you find it in your 
heart to forgive it? I’m doing you no further 
harm in loving Ruth.” 

He paused. He did not know that these 
words, showing a peaceful unconsciousness of 
all she had hoped for, made the heaviest note 
in his knell. 

“After these years,” he continued, “ in the 
present, when you and I are friends, this new 
feeling has come to awaken me, to make me 
better. You wouldn’t rob me of Ruth’s love. 
She need never know. Parting us can’t mend 
the past. What’s done is done.” 

“ You’ll never marry her,” she said, and set 
her lips. 

His distress broke all bounds, and he sprang 
up. 


258 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


“ If you try to part us, you’ll be doing the 
crudest thing a woman ever did.” 

“ Think what you like,” she said, with the 
invincible obstinacy of small natures. 

“ Your daughter loves me. Ruth loves me. 
Can you smile and strike at her in order to 
make me suffer? Think of her. She loves 
deeply. There is soul-stuff in her. She loves 
in a way you can’t understand. Life and 
death are in the feeling — and she loves 
7ne/ J 

“ Oh, no,” she said, with an insulting little 
laugh, “ she loves what she thinks is you! 
Otherwise, why didn’t you tell her about the 
old days? Why?” 

He paced before her, his lips gray. 

“ I don’t like opening healed sores. I don’t 
like dragging out the family skeleton and rat- 
tling its bones. I know how I love Ruth. I 
know that loving her has changed me utterly 
from the man you knew. I know I can make 
her happy.” 

“ I’m not so sure even of that. You’re more 


259 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 

than twice her age,” she said in a cold, fluted 
voice. 

“ She loves me! ” he said, his face illumined. 

“ We’ll measure that love,” and Mrs. 
Dakon, shaking out her laces, stood up. The 
tragedy was all in his face now; she was smil- 
ing. “ I’ll not hamper Ruth. She’ll make her 
own choice. I promise you I’ll not denounce 
you nor give any coloring to the picture. She 
shall know the bare facts, and decide then if 
she wishes to marry you. You may win, but 
I think not,” 

He leaned his hands on the table, moisture 
on his temples. 

“ I wish to God I’d told her myself! When 
I got a note from her this morning, saying 
you were against me, I went to the studio. I 
meant then to tell her. But she’d gone, alone, 
into the country; they didn’t know where. I 
spent the day looking for her along the Seine, 
but couldn’t find her. Then I came here, to 
find you like this. I didn’t dream you were 
capable of such hate. The miserable story is 
260 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


so old, so old, you might let it rest in its grave- 
clothes.” His mind leaped to one hope. “ If 
you tell Ruth all the truth, you’ll have to admit 
accepting an income from me. Or will you 
leave that out? ” 

“ It won’t be necessary to mention that.” 

“ You’re playing a petty game, but I’ll 
stoop to your methods.” His eyes were burn- 
ing and determined. “ Unless you tell all, and 
tell this last fact as part of my justification, 
I’ll tell Ruth about it myself. If you let her 
think I left you without some redress, I’ll 
prove you a liar. Now take your choice. Si- 
lence — or all.” 

She smiled easily and waved her hand. 

“ You think I’d hesitate? Not for a mo- 
ment. I’ll tell her all. She’ll blame me for 
having done it, no doubt. But I’ll chance it. 
And now, will you please go? My head is 
really much worse for this scene.” 

He took up his hat. His face was older, 
his forehead creased with pain. At the door 
he looked at her. 


261 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 

“ Will nothing make you pity me?” 

“ Nothing can keep me silent. Ruth must 
know.” 

“ When will you tell her? ” 

“As soon as she comes in.” 

When he reached his hotel he found a tele- 
gram from London awaiting him, and for a 
time this diverted his thoughts from the crucial 
issue of his life. It was that his nephew, a 
young collegian of twenty, had gotten into 
serious financial trouble. Besides, he was ill 
with pneumonia, alone in his chambers. Law- 
rence was very fond of the boy, his sister’s 
child. Had the difficulty been only a matter 
of money, he could have straightened it at 
once, perhaps, by telegrams, but the message 
sent by the lad’s valet about his illness was 
urgent. He felt he must go at once, though 
an absence from Paris now was ominous. 

If he could see Ruth before Mrs. Dakon 
did — But Fate was against him here. He 
did not know where to turn to find her; she 
might even now have reached home. There 
262 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


was nothing to gain by staying, once she knew . 
In fact, an interval after the shock before their 
meeting might make her calmer and therefore 
kinder to him. Besides, he might be able to 
return in a day or two, and in the mean time he 
could write to Ruth, and win a sign of hope 
from her to take with him. While his man 
packed his things, he wrote and sent the 
following : 

“My Darling: By the time you get this 
your mother will have told you the old story 
of dishonor. I admit everything, dearest, but 
this I say to you — to you who have given me 
a new earth that is like heaven — I’m not now 
as I was then, and I love you. You won’t cast 
me off for this. No, you won’t do that. Con- 
demn the Lawrence Brundage of twelve years 
ago, but oh, my love, my Buth, believe in this 
one. I am like one insane, and in this tortured 
state I must go to London to help Philip Pem- 
broke, my nephew, who is perhaps fatally ill. 
Give me one sign, sweetheart, that you forgive 
263 


TIME THE COMEDIAN 

me and love me still. I’ll leave Paris by 
Dieppe and go by the night boat. I can’t 
even try to see you, but give me a sign. I will 
be opposite your house, Ruth, at seven o’clock. 
Come out on the balcony and let me see you, 
if I have still any place in your heart. I’ll 
watch for you with a longing that is agony. 
Pity me. I love you. Without you I am a lost 
soul.” 

A little before seven his carriage drew up in 
the Avenue Montaigne opposite Mrs. Dakon’s. 
He stepped out and walked slowly down the 
street, keeping his eyes fixed on the balcony 
of the apartment au deuocieme. Lights were 
shining in the salon through the rose silk, and 
one window w^as open. It was on this window 
his longing gaze was fastened. Through this 
Ruth would come. 

He was white and nervous as twenty times 
he went up and down the street, but no sign 
of life fluttered the flowers on the balcony, no 
face looked down at him. The fever lessened 


264 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


in his blood; his heart-beats became slow and 
heavy ; the open window through which no one 
passed gradually became as the face of an 
enemy. At twenty minutes past seven he was 
forced to retreat to his carriage and be driven 
away to the train. Still he would not believe. 

“ She has not reached home/’ he said. “ She 
hasn’t yet had my letter. When she reads it 
she’ll send for me. There’ll be a letter at my 
hotel when I get back. I’ll leave London the 
day after to-morrow. She hasn’t read my let- 
ter. When she reads, she will write. She will 
send for me. I know she will. She won’t give 
me up.” 

At several stations he sent her telegrams, 
appealing, loving. His one cry was not to 
give him up — to hear what he had to say — to 
believe that he loved her. From midnight to 
dawn he paced up and down the narrow deck 
of the Channel steamer, a haunted wretch. 

No one appeared on Mrs. Dakon’s balcony 
all that night. In her own room Ruth sat 
alone, the door locked. She had heard her 
265 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


mother’s storjr. As seven o’clock struck, she 
was sitting by a table, her face on her locked 
hands. The love-letters Lawrence had written 
to her mother twelve years earlier were spread 
out in a tossed heap before her. 


i 


266 


CHAPTER XXI 


At midnight, for the fifth time, Mrs. Da- 
kon crept down the hall and listened at her 
daughter’s door. Still the light through the 
keyhole, and not a sound. She was ready for 
bed, an elaborate silken neglige tumbling over 
her night-dress; but it would be useless to try 
to sleep without some further speech with 
Ruth. The memory of her face as she listened 
to the long, hysterical story of that past which 
had been shrived and buried for so long, was 
not a pleasant one. The disclosures had been 
unrolled with digressions, self -excuses, and 
wildly bitter accusations against Lawrence, 
her statement to him that she would be impar- 
tial notwithstanding. 

She wished that Ruth had cried out, or pro- 
tested, or disbelieved, or launched bitter words 
is 267 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


at Lawrence, even at herself. Anything 
would have been more endurable than her 
awful calm. She had seemed to freeze in the 
chair. Her closed hand upon the table had 
been like a dead hand. Mrs. Dakon had often 
heard the simile of faces seeming to change to 
stone, but had never seen this look upon a 
living face until to-night. Ruth’s hair had 
seemed like a wig over a petrified face. When 
her mother had untied the old love-letters and 
poured them with vehemence into her lap, 
Ruth had gathered them up slowly, and, with- 
out a word, had gone to her room, locking 
herself in. 

Thoughts that made Mrs. Dakon tremble 
raced through her mind now. Ruth might 
have killed herself. She had always been a 
puzzle to her, had always felt things so keenly. 
During her school-days she had studied nerv- 
ously, passionately, to pass her examinations, 
not sleeping or eating. At fourteen the death 
of a school friend she had loved had been such 
a violent grief to her that for months she had 
268 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


not smiled, and had grown quite thin. In her 
elementary way, Mrs. Dakon divined that her 
child had tragic deeps within her. It was 
quite within the bounds of possibility that 
Ruth lay dead beyond the door, locked against 
herself. She knocked cautiously, more loudly, 
then frantically. 

“Ruth! For God’s sake, come out and 
speak to me! ” 

Relief rushed through her as she heard a 
chair pushed back. The door was opened and 
Ruth faced her. She was in every detail just 
as she had been when she entered the room. 
She had not shed a tear, but she had an elder- 
ly, wasted look, and her eyes were as hollow 
as if she had been watching beside the adored 
dead. 

“ You want to speak to me? ” she said in a 
numbed voice. 

“ Oh, Ruth, how awful you look, darling! ” 
her mother screamed, with a rush of tears, and 
tried to put her arm around her. “You cared 
horribly. But I had to tell you. You don’t 
269 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


blame me? If you’d found it out after you’d 
married him ” 

“ Don’t say anything more about that now,” 
she said in a tone that could not be disobeyed. 
“ I think if there’s nothing else, you’d better 
go to bed. You’ll get cold.” 

“ You’ve had no dinner,” her mother wept 
as she dabbed her nose with a wet handker- 
chief. “ I had Etienne spread a nice little sup- 
per for you. There’s a pate and some claret.” 

“ I’m not hungry. Good night. You’d 
better go to bed.” 

“ Won’t you please eat a bite just to please 
me? And, oh, do come into my room and 
sleep on the couch. I can’t bear to be alone. 
I’m so nervous, I’m nearly crazy. Oh, if 
you have a little pity, don’t shut yourself in 
again and leave me alone! I sha’n’t sleep 
a wink. Please — please, Ruth,” she whim- 
pered, and pulled at her arms like a frantic 
child. 

Ruth put her away gently, saying, “ I’ll go 
with you.” 


270 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


She took up the scented bag holding her 
nightgown and turned out the gas. Her com- 
posure was uncanny to Mrs. Dakon. In the 
dining-room she poured out a goblet of the 
claret and drank it eagerly, but to further 
pleas to eat she shook her head. For the first 
time since her childhood her mother would have 
spread the satin coverlet over her and tucked 
her in ; but something in Ruth protested 
savagely. She shrank from the attentions. It 
was as if her mother, having stabbed her, was 
trying to heal the wound with kisses. 

“ Please go to bed, mother,” she said. “ I 
can take care of myself.” 

Mrs. Dakon’s tears flowed again. She 
stared at Ruth, unconscious that the brown 
cosmetic from her lashes was dabbled on her 
wet cheeks. 

“ You call me ‘ mother.’ You don’t say 
‘ Noddy.’ I believe you hate me.” Ruth lay 
down and closed her eyes. “ Do you? Do 
you hate me? ” she persisted. 

“No, I don’t hate you. Please try to sleep. 
271 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 

I’ll talk to you to-morrow. I want to think 
now.” 

“ Think? I’d say, try to forget. What’s 
there to think about?” 

“ I’ll talk to you to-morrow,” she said, and 
turned away. 

The night was old before Ruth fell asleep, 
and the morning was very young when she 
awoke. Memory played a cruel trick upon 
her. For a moment the truth was wiped out. 
Her heart was heavy, but she had to grope 
for the reason of it. It came quickly, and 
it was a whip that lashed her up to action. 

She was leaving the room without making 
a sound, but a long, sleepy sigh from her 
mother’s bed stayed her. As quietly, she re- 
turned and pushed back the silk curtain. Mrs. 
Dakon slept heavily, her hands falling open, 
her brow unruffled. Ruth in spirit was apart 
from her, looking at her with the eyes of a 
stranger. She was a helpless figure to tempt 
the arrows of destiny, a woman born to make 
mistakes and be forgiven for them; her bur- 
272 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


dens, as a matter of course, to be placed on the 
shoulders most convenient, she to eat the fruit 
unsparingly and to be thanked for the rind 
she left for others. It had always been so. 
Ruth’s face was unsoftened as she dropped the 
curtain and went out. 

The servants were an siocieme, and would 
not be down for an hour. She set the kettle 
boiling. After a cold spray and a cup of 
strong coffee, she dressed, and very soon stood 
in the new, June morning under the chestnut- 
trees. The streets were gray and full of float- 
ing mist, just the upper points of dormer win- 
dows catching a golden light. She was alone 
except for occasional workmen in blue blouses 
and berets . When she reached the Rond Point 
and looked up the Champs Elysees, she felt she 
had Paris to herself. 

Sparrows chattered among the lines of 
empty chairs, and on the rise above the silent 
avenue she saw the great Arc, awesome in the 
mist as if it were the portal to an unearthly 
land. She drew a chair to a point against 
273 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


a tree from which her eyes could rest on this 
Arc. She had always loved it. She knew its 
every mood, and its beauty had brought con- 
tent to her soul. Even now, when she was 
tasting the bitter waters of such a grim awa- 
kening as she had never dreamed of, its maj- 
esty and peace comforted her. 

She sat so still the sparrows ceased to fear 
her and darted about her inquiringly. A small 
brown object lay in her lap and her hand 
caressed it, her eyes sought it often. It was an 
old tobacco-pouch that had been her father’s, 
some of the tobacco that his fingers had touched 
still in it. Her heart was clamoring for him. 
She prayed silently, as she sat back with closed 
eyes, that if his spirit could reach her it would 
come to her, make a sign to her. Her desire 
was so intense her body trembled; she spoke 
his name aloud; she begged him pitifully, as 
if she were a little child again, to come to 
her there, to let her know in some way that he 
was with her. 

A leaf fluttered down and fell upon the lit- 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


tie pouch, worn shiny from use. Upon the 
stillness and her dreaming its descent was like 
a shock. She picked it up. This might be 
the sign. It was young and green, and there 
was no breeze blowing, yet it had fallen at her 
prayer. This might be the sign. She pressed 
it to her lips, while the first tears rolled slowly 
from her closed eyes. For another hour she 
sat there until Paris had awakened to the busi- 
ness of life. She shut the green leaf behind 
the clasp of the pouch and went slowly home. 

Etienne passed her in the hall with her 
mother’s early coffee and rolls. 

“ Madame has been asking for you, Mad- 
emoiselle,” he said. 

“ Say I’ll be with her in a few moments,” 
Ruth answered, and went to her own room. 

She gathered up the tossed letters and made 
them into a package. Her face wore a deter- 
mined expression. The man that had written 
those letters to the wife of his friend was not 
the man she had loved. In groping, bewil- 
dered, astray, to a condition of mind where she 
275 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


could accept this, she had known the sting of 
anguish and then a gaunt desolation. This 
morning she was thinking of her father’s 
share of pain. Two had wronged him, and he 
had paid the price. Cold justice had slipped 
like a rod of iron into Ruth’s nature. Law- 
rence Brundage should pay now to the full. 
Her mother should pay, as much as her nature 
was capable of. 

Mrs. Dakon was sitting on a couch, slipping 
on a pair of satin mules when Ruth came in. 

“ Oh! ” she cried, in a tone of tragic relief, 
“ I was just going to you. I haven’t been 
able to touch my coffee. I haven’t slept a 
wink all night. Where have you been? Eti- 
enne said you’d made coffee before he got 
down.” 

“ I went for an early walk. Here are your 
letters.” 

Mrs. Dakon’s face was abashed as she took 
them. 

“ When I put them in the bottom of my 
trunk — as women will do such foolish things, 
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TIME ' THE COMEDIAN 


you know — I little thought I was saving them 
for you,” she said grimly. “ I’ll burn them 
to-day.” 

Without replying, Ruth sat down at a little 
distance, facing her. 

“ There’s something we must speak of. Do 
you feel like it? Or would you rather wait? ” 

Her tone was courteous, impersonal, her 
worn face calm. Mrs. Dakon gave her a 
frightened glance. 

“ Why do you speak to me that way? ” 

“ What way? ” 

“As if I were a stranger, or a thousand 
miles away from you, or something. I don’t 
like it.” 

“ We’re not going to have a scene, 
mother,” Ruth said gently. “ We’re going to 
talk over this situation sensibly, quietly, and 
do what has to be done, quickly.” 

“ I wish you wouldn’t ‘ mother ’ me,” Mrs. 
Dakon said testily, balancing the satin mule 
on her toe and frowning. “And I don’t in the 
least know what you’re driving at.” 

277 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


“Don’t you?” Ruth drew a paper and 
pencil toward her and began figuring on it in 
silence for a moment. “ Fifteen thousand 
dollars — twelve years.” 

Mrs. Dakon’s eyes grew round. 

“ You owe Lawrence Brundage to-day one 
hundred and eighty thousand dollars.” She 
looked at her mother fully. “ This in all prob- 
ability you never can pay back. About how 
much of it was spent on me? Can you 
estimate at all? ” 

Mrs. Dakon leaped up, her face flam- 
ing. 

“ What do you mean by talking this way 
to me? Are you trying to insult me? ” 

“ Not unless the fact that you’ve lived on 
Lawrence Brundage’s money for twelve years 
is an insult.” 

Mrs. Dakon flung up her arms, sank into a 
chair, and burst into loud sobs. 

“ Oh, to think that my own child should say 
this to me — that she should dare to say it! 
Oh, my God ! What shall I do? ” 

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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


Ruth leaned over her and put her hand on 
her shoulder. 

“You are wrong, mother — Noddy — quite, 
quite wrong. You spoke of insult. I hadn’t 
the thought in my mind. We must talk over 
this. It’s unpleasant, but it can’t be helped. 
The amount you’ve spent is beyond your 
giving back, but my share I must some 
day ” 

Mrs. Dakon pushed her hand away furi- 
ously. 

“ I never heard more Quixotic nonsense — 
such utter trash as you’re talking this moment. 
Give back? Return? Why do you make 
a fuss over this ? I took the income ; I 
had to; I’d have gone stark mad if I’d lived 
in New York with your good, virtuous Aunt 
Abby, who was the most disagreeable old viper 
under the mask of Christianity that was ever 
created. Haven’t I done what was right by 
you? Educated you here in Paris, given you 
beautiful clothes, paid out money for your 

painting lessons to big men ■” 

279 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


“Don’t — don’t!” Ruth shrank away, her 
eyes darkening with wrath, her body quiver- 
ing. “ Can’t you see that’s what maddens me? 
Can’t you see that’s why I spoke? I am what 
I am to-day because of this man’s money. 
The thought makes me desperate, and will 
until I’ve wiped out my share of this debt at 
least.” 

But Mrs. Dakon was outraged. She 
stamped her foot as her exasperated glance 
traveled over her daughter’s figure. 

“You have no sympathy with me.” 

Ruth was silent. 

“ Have you? ” her mother screamed. “ You 
stand there like a ghost and look at me with 
hard, cold eyes, although you’ve read those 
letters and know all I went through. Answer 
me. Do you pity me at all? ” 

“ Yes, in a way, I pity you.” 

“ In a way? ” 

“You were made to suffer through your 
own acts. I forgive you all. I know, too, 
how fully Lawrence Brundage’s brutality 
280 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


avenged my father. But you may as well 
know that not you or Lawrence Brundage or 
my own awakening has wrung my heart. My 
father’s story has done that.” The tears were 
glittering now in her hollow eyes. “ If I seem 
hard to you, remember the thought that’s with 
me is this: You stood ready to nail his bleed- 
ing heart before the public eye, and when he 
knew this his life was finished.” 

The passionate words were uttered in a 
breath. Mrs. Dakon quailed as she heard 
them. There was a look on her face as if a 
ghost had risen. But her instinct of defense 
had become pugnacious, and she rallied. 

“You have the heart of an oyster to talk 
this way to me, your mother. How dare 
you? ” 

Ruth paid no attention to the vixenish fury 
of the words. 

“ We’re not going to quarrel. I wanted 
you to know that some day I’m going to cancel 
my debt to Lawrence Brundage,” she said, 
going to the door. “ I was going to talk to 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


you, too, about just where and how we’re to 
live in future. But perhaps that had better 
wait.” 

Mrs. Dakon wrinkled her brows angrily. 

“You seem bent on maddening and con- 
fusing me this morning. What’s this next 
idea of yours? Where and how we’re to live, 
you say? ” Her voice grew strident as she sat 
down and flung her head up. “We are to 
live here, and as we have always done.” 

“ But how can you? You can’t afford this 
place any longer. You’ll have to live quite 
differently. Don’t you realize that we’ll be 
poor? ” asked Ruth, her fingers falling from 
the knob. She went to her mother and leaned 
over her chair. “ Noddy, it will be hard at 
first, but in a way it will be sweet. To stand 
alone — to be independent — what is better? ” 
she said, with sudden tenderness. “ If I seem 
cold to-day, forgive me. I feel as if I’d been 
down into a grave since last night. But I 
mean to keep close to you, and we’ll fight the 
battle together. Of course I’ll leave Dubose’s 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


at once, and, except for my new canvas, I’ll 
stop painting and do illustrating for papers 
and magazines. Leon Lemaire and his brother 
have gone into the publishing business and 
will put a lot of that in my way. It won’t 
be long, I think, before I’m making about five 
thousand francs a year. I’ve thought over 
everything. You remember Mrs. St. Leger 
is looking for an apartment for her American 
friends. She’ll take this off your hands. Sell 
her the furnishings too — you have some beau- 
tiful tapestries, paintings, silver — and you’ll 
have this much to give back. Probably she’d 
take the carriages ” 

With a sound as if she were strangling, Mrs. 
Dakon sprang up and faced her daughter. 
She was ghastly. 

“All of this stuff means that you suppose 
I’m not to have seventy-five thousand francs 
a year any more — that you think I’m not to 
take it any more,” she said, her teeth shaking, 
her eyes a challenge. “ You think I’m to be 
a pauper.” 

19 


283 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


Ruth stepped back from her. Her mother 
rushed on: 

“You have the most absurd notions. That’s 
because you’re young and raw and know noth- 
ing of the world. You think it’s easy for a 
woman like me to renounce luxury, and go 
out into the world to scrimp and work and 
get fagged and old? ” She gave a jarring, 
excited laugh. “ I’m not quite a fool. Give 
up my beautiful home, my friends, my 
gowns, my servants, my masseuse, my horses 
— all for a silly schoolgirl’s romantic idea of 
what’s right?” She snapped her fingers an- 
grily. “ Never! It may be very nice to live 
in a draughty old barn of a studio up an alley- 
way on the other side of the river, and buy 
your two sous' worth of cheese, and cook over 
an oil-stove, when you’re twenty-one, but not 
when you’re my age. I stay where I am. I 
consider this money my just due, and it was 
given to me for life. What have you to say 
to that? ” 

The last question, defiant though it was, 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


fluttered on her lips. She grew cold before 
the look in her daughter’s eyes. She could 
not quite fathom all it meant, but she never 
forgot it. 

“ What are you? ” Ruth said at last. “Are 
you my mother? How can you be, and choose 
to be contemptible all your life and thrive on 
it? ” she asked, quick passion sweeping through 
her; “a creature that was jilted, and then — 
paid — grow sleek and happy as the years go 
on, on such money? Are you my mother? ” 

Mrs. Dakon sank into a chair, motionless 
and fascinated before Ruth, who seemed to 
tower above her. 

“ Not if you do this, not after to-night.” 
Ruth went on, the tone a seal upon the words : 
“ Make your choice now — this income that de- 
grades you if you will, but say good-by to me. 
I would not only not touch a sou of it myself, 
but the sight of you would offend me. I’d 
never want to see you. I mean this.” 

Mrs. Dakon’s eyes flooded again; her voice 
rose to a wail: 


285 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


“ Remember what I’ve suffered ” 

“ I’m thinking of this money.” 

“Oh, you can be cruel!” She sprang up 
wildly. “ But I’ll not be poor! No, I won’t! 
You don’t know all it means at my age. I 
can’t. No, and I won’t. There!” 

Ruth opened the door, but her mother 
dragged her back. 

“ Where are you going? ” 

“ Out of this house now, forever — out where 
I can breathe,” she said frantically. 

“ But I’m your mother, and I can’t let you 

go.” 

“I’m going now.” 

Mrs. Dakon grew hysterical. 

“ Well, even if you don’t live with me, you’ll 

let me see you. You’ll not be angry ” 

“ Mother, would you want to see me when 
you knew that the sight of you sickened me?” 
asked Ruth, seizing her by the shoulders. 
“ For it would. Oh, it would! ” 

“ Oh, God help me! ” Mrs. Dakon moaned, 
her knees giving way. She looked up at 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


Ruth’s white face, while holding fast to her. 
“I’m your mother — I can’t give you up. I’ll 
— I’ll give up the money. Do what you like 
with me.” 

She fainted. Ruth put pitiful arms about 
her and lifted her to the bed. 


287 


CHAPTER XXII 


In four days they were ready to leave the 
Avenue Montaigne. The apartment had been 
rented, the furniture sold to the new tenants. 
Ruth closed her eyes to the fact that some 
things of value had mysteriously disappeared. 
The tapestries, rare and costly, were gone 
from the hall; there was a gap on the wall 
where one of Henner’s nudes had hung; an 
antique silver lamp and tea-set were not in 
their accustomed places. Ruth knew her 
mother had stored them away somewhere and 
omitted them from the inventory, but she re- 
mained silent. Mrs. Dakon had reached the 
highest point of self-sacrifice possible to her. 
Ruth had no wish to take her morally by the 
throat and force her to a sane, clean pride she 
neither understood nor wanted. 

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It was six o’clock when Ruth reached home 
after a fatiguing day. She had removed her 
belongings from the school to a cheap atelier 
up an impasse on the Rue Monsieur. At- 
tached to this there were three living-rooms 
holding the furniture of the last owner, who 
had gone with a year’s rent unpaid. Ruth 
had put her easel with her half -finished canvas 
on it, had bought an oil-stove, a chafing-dish, 
a better bed for her mother than the one the 
missing artist had used, and a divan for 
herself. 

As she had supervised the cleaning and ar- 
ranging of the place, she had tasted the first 
piquant savor of freedom. This home was to 
be hers, to be paid for by the work of her 
hands. The rooms, simple though they were, 
and in sharp contrast to the luxury they were 
leaving, were capable of comfort and beauty. 
She had put a jade bowl filled with yellow 
roses on the mantel; a massive brass jar from 
Bruges, picked up on the Rue des Quatre 
Vents for a trifle, had been transformed into 
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TIME THE COMEDIAN 


the base for a big shaded lamp; new curtains 
of white cheese-cloth hung in straight, full 
folds across the big north window; sketches 
and unframed canvases peopled the high walls 
with color and a semblance of life; books were 
on the tables, on the low window-sill, and on 
a shelf which, at the height of a man’s head, 
was built around the big room. 

She was waiting now for her mother, whom 
she had not seen all day. Without taking off 
her hat, she was so tired, she sat back in a big 
chair, thinking. Everything had been at- 
tended to. A package was waiting for Law- 
rence at his banker’s. It held the pearls and 
the ruby engagement ring in the old jewel 
box, together with a letter from Mrs. Dakon 
refusing further money, returning the last 
check from his lawyers, and enclosing her 
check for the amount received by the sale of 
her effects. Letters from him, still with the 
London postmark on them, had been sent to 
his hotel unopened. Ruth wanted to wipe 
the memory of him from her life. She wanted 
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to know nothing of his future. The thought 
of him made a flame of anger and disgust 
wrap her. She would not give the new ad- 
dress to any one he could possibly see. No one 
at the studio, nor the concierge here, nor Mrs. 
St. Leger, should know it until she was sure 
he had left Paris. The impasse in the Rue 
Monsieur was far from the Hotel Ritz and 
would be a trusty hiding-place. 

“ How queer you look,” were Mrs. Dakon’s 
first words as she entered, “ sitting there with 
your hat on! Really, you must take yourself 
in hand. You’re losing what looks you had. 
Your face has grown horribly thin.” 

The sprightly tone in which she launched 
the criticism made Ruth alert. Since the 
change in her fortunes, Mrs. Dakon had been 
a languid, morose martyr, but now there was 
a briskness about her that told she was on bet- 
ter terms with herself and the world. Her 
eyes sparkled belligerently, two disks of color 
burned on her cheeks. She had on her most 
beautiful afternoon-gown, too, a soft silky 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 

stuff, the color of a tea-rose; a hat all of tea- 
roses was tilted over her eyes; a white-dotted 
veil just escaped her beautiful little nose; and 
she was violets from her bosom to her belt line. 

“I look ill, I know; but I feel more 
content/’ Ruth smiled, “ than when I looked 
better.” 

“ Really? ” said Mrs. Dakon politely, as she 
pulled off a long, pale glove, twinkled her 
fingers to ease them, and looked at her rings. 

“ The place is all ready, Noddy,” Ruth went 
on. “ It’s very pretty and satisfying with its 
big, shining north window and some flowers 
about. I hope you’ll like it. Of course you’ll 
have to cultivate a different point of view, and 
not make comparisons with this.” 

“ What place is it? ” asked Mrs. Dakon, 
with insolent unconcern as she put the violets 
in water. 

The tone angered Ruth. 

“ Our new home in the Rue Monsieur, of 
course. Where else? You know I’ve been 
working at it for two days.” 

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“And you thought I’d live there? ” 

“You saw it, and you said you would.” 

“ My dear, I’d hang myself at a rope’s end 
first,” she said suavely, as she carefully re- 
moved her hat and stabbed the big coral hat- 
pins into it. 

Ruth’s face darkened with anxiety. 

“ Evidently you’ve made other plans. What 
are you going to do? ” 

“ You thought I was going out to rough 
it on the Rue Monsieur? ” She flung back her 
head and laughed heartily. “ My dear, just 
fancy! Give up my comforts, my woman to 
rub me, my Sylvie to cook for me, my car- 
riages, even Coquet? Oh, Ruth, how merci- 
less a young girl can be! ” She stood up and 
smilingly ruffled the hair above her forehead 
before the mirror. “ No, my dear, I stay here 
just as I am — but with an addition to the 
household.” She went gaily to the outer door, 
saying: “ You may come in. Here, my dear,” 
she cried, returning, “ is your new father. 
We were married an hour ago. Mrs. St. 

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Leger’s friends take his apartment and fur- 
niture instead of mine, and he comes down 
here.” 

Professor Gunning stood in the doorway, 
exquisitely arrayed, a white flower in his but- 
tonhole, his arms extended, a cajoling smile 
on his face. 

“ Come here to me, me dear,” he cooed, 
“ and kiss your new dada — the happiest man 
in the French capital this day.” 

Ruth’s amazement died quickly. She had 
not thought of this solution of her mother’s 
difficulties, but it was logical enough. She 
went to the professor and he kissed her on 
both cheeks. Tears rose to his eyes as he held 
Ruth with one arm, and encircled his new bride 
with the other. 

“ It’s two darlings I have instead # of one. 
Bedad, it’s a happy family we’ll be. Nous 
verrons! And now, if you’ll both be ready by 
half past seven, we’ll have a dinner under the 
trees at Armenonville to celebrate that’ll warm 
the cockles of your hearts.” 

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Mrs. Dakon wore all scarlet to dine in. 

“ He likes me in red,” she said, with a shy- 
ness and gentleness that surprised Ruth. 

“ Noddy,” she said, “ do try to make the 
professor happy. He’s such a love.” 

“ Oh, I will,” Mrs. Dakon asserted confi- 
dently. “And don’t misjudge me. You may 
think it’s only because he’s rich. But there’s 
another reason. I’ll always be a goddess to 
him. He’ll never be my critic. When I do 
get wrinkles, Ruth, he’ll never see them. You 
see,” she sighed, “ I had to think of every- 
thing.” 


295 


CHAPTER XXIII 


Lawrence was shown into Mrs. St. Leger’s 
parlor in the Hotel Ritz. She was lying on a 
sofa eating marrons glaces . 

“ Excuse my not rushing to meet you. I’ve 
had to give up the impulsive style.” She 
looked away from his fatigued, gloomy face 
and rambled on: “ I’m getting so fat, Larry, 
I intend to let my stays out, put up my feet, 
and cultivate a languid air. Isn’t it distress- 
ing that everything I like goes to upholstery? 
I’ve been thinking it over,” she said confi- 
dentially, “ and I believe it’s all explained 
by the reincarnation theory. You’re not lis- 
tening.” 

He passed his hand over his eyes in a nerv- 
ous way. 

“ Indeed I am. I’m particularly anxious to 
Hear how reincarnation and fat affiliate.” 


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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 

“ Well, I think that in my last existence I 
was one of those lovely, skinny women,” she 
said, making a pillow of her arms, “who can 
eat anything and never lose a line, hang wads 
of stuff on themselves, shirrings, tucks, and 
even have the stripes go around them and re- 
main 4 willowy ’ — how I hate that word ! I 
believe I was one of those when I was here 
before. But I dare say I had a nasty disposi- 
tion and went through life making it hot for 
some one ; or I may have been a downright bad 
lot, robbed a bank, or murdered a cruel guard- 
ian. So when I was born this last time, the 
angel that presides on those occasions, and 
has a nasty job of it, I think, probably cried 
out in angel language : ‘ Theodosia ’ — that’s 

my baptismal name, you know — ‘ thou shalt be 
unable to wear the fluffy, fussy clothes thou 
shalt most admire. Thou shalt like all those 
things thou shouldst not like ; thou shalt yearn 
to thy undoing for the floury potato; thou 
shalt dally with the sauces of the Gauls; yea, 
thou shalt love the champagne when it fizzeth 
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and 'the cocktail when it fizzeth not, and these 
things shall be as thine enemies. Go thy way, 
Theodosia, and on that way I condemn thee 
for thy past sins to much flesh and a waddle.’ 
Now I ask you if I’m not ‘ up against it’ ? ” 

She looked tragic. Lawrence gave a slight 
laugh. 

“ You’re too absurd.” He turned to her 
fully. “ If you’ve quite finished, I want to 
ask you a few questions. I’ll have to explain 
why ” 

“ You don’t have to ask a single question 
or explain anything, Larry.” Mrs. St. Leger 
sat up with a business-like air and adjusted her 
hairpins. “ Don’t you suppose I know why 
you look like a dead man with his eyes open? ” 

“I’ve just come from London; saw Phil 
Pembroke over the crisis of pneumonia.” 

“Ah, really!” she said, with mocking sym- 
pathy. “ Your anxiety as an uncle has done 
you up this way. Admirable creature! You 
could pose for the Ten Commandments turned 
out by a London tailor.” 

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“ What do you know? ” he asked brusquely. 

“ I’ll tell you. Bo-peep came here and told 
me all that I didn’t know or divine about that 
old love-affair. If ever there was an angelic 
martyr whose crown is kept constantly pol- 
ished and waiting, she is that martyr. If ever 
there was a rake, roue , wretch of the blackest 
dye, warranted not to streak and perfectly 
weather-proof, that unmentionable creature is 
you. If ever there was a little lamb, pursued 
by the roue and protected from him by the 
martyr at great personal risk, that woolly little 
darling is her daughter Ruth.” 

He stood up, his glassy eyes very bright in 
contrast to his exhausted face. 

“ I want to see Ruth,” he said, with bitter 
yearning. “ That’s all. Only let me see her. 
Manage it for me, Pussy, and I’ll be your 
debtor as long as I live. Ask her here. I must 
speak to her. She won’t even read my letters. 
Her mother is keeping her from me. If I 
could see her it would be different. Get her 
here and let me see her. Will you? ” 

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“ I don’t know where she is.” 

“ She hasn’t left Paris? ” he asked, aghast. 

“ I don’t know. You evidently haven’t 
heard the most astonishing bit of news. Mrs. 
Dakon has been married since you left. She’s 
now Mrs. Gunning. Perhaps you’ve seen that 
good-looking old Irishman who lived in the 
same house? That’s the man — rich — dotes on 
her. She’s in luck ” 

“ But Ruth — Ruth ” 

“ I’m coming to her. She’s gone out into 
the world to earn her own living somewhere, 
and her address is a secret.” 

“ Can’t you get it? Can’t you manage some 
way — some way ” 

“ Not by fair means, and I’m not sorry 
enough for you to get it by foul.” 

He paced before her nervously. 

“ I see. Your sympathies are with Mrs. Da- 
kon — Gunning — whatever it is,” he flashed. 

“ She has a lot on her side. Now listen to 
me. I’m not a stern moralist, and I make as 
many allowances for human weakness as I do 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


for London fogs— part of the outfit. But, 
Larry, when you think that had you acted 
decently to Bo-peep you would have been 
Ruth Dakon’s grave and reverend papa for 
these long years, why in the world did you 
elect to fall in love with this girl, in this world 
of girls? " and she flung her arms wide. 

“ I didn't ‘ elect ’ at all," he said, and sat 
down, his face hopeless. “ I loved her, that’s 
all. And I do and I will." 

“ Oh, this is a place where the moralists 
might well chuckle," said Mrs. St. Leger, ta- 
king another marron . “ Had you never made 
love to Bo-peep, you could now marry Ruth. 
But because you did, you can’t. That you 
love her, as you never loved before in your 
life, is part of your punishment. Larry, Time 
is having his joke with you. He’s always rep- 
resented as a very gloomy old person with a 
beard of unfashionable length and leaning on 
a scythe. But I believe he’s a comedian, and 
I can fairly see him with his hands on his 
sides laughing at you." 

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“ Your imagination is particularly vivid this 
morning,” he said coldly, his brows meeting 
as he took up his hat. “ I didn’t get the in- 
formation I came for, but I’m obliged for the 
moral lesson.” 

Mrs. St. Leger followed him to the door and 
laid her hand on his arm. 

“ Larry, you’ll be foolish if you try to find 
Ruth Dakon. It’ll do you no good. I feel it.” 

“ I’ll find her,” he said, his look dogged, 
“ and when I do — when I do ” — he murmured, 
his voice thrilling — “ she’ll love me and she’ll 
marry me — and the past be damned! ” 


B02 


CHAPTER XXIV 


Ruth had gone to live her own life in the 
Rue Monsieur. Many tears had been shed by 
Mrs. Dakon, wordy battles fought, and the 
fatherly overtures of Professor Gunning re- 
sisted, before this was accomplished. 

“ What will people think? ” Mrs. Dakon 
had demanded. “ They’ll say you detest your 
stepfather.” 

Ruth protested amiably. 

“ Dear Noddy, they’ll say nothing of the 
sort. It’s the most natural thing in the world 
that I should leave you with him, in this home, 
charming for two and impossible for three. 
Besides, two things make my choice of an in- 
dependent life quite reasonable: I am an artist 
and an American girl. The Quartier is full 
of others just like me, and they are my friends. 

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Besides, Babe will pitch her tent with me when 
the summer’s over. I’ll be with you a great 
deal, dine with you, go about with, you. But 
I long to taste freedom.” Her face grew 
grave as she added: “Besides, to speak once 
more of a subject we decided to bury, Noddy, 
I’ve had a blow, you know. Work is the best 
medicine for me. I ache to begin it.” 

She had her way. This, to Mrs. Dakon’s 
mind, meant having everything hateful and 
unlovely. The left bank of the Seine, except 
in the Faubourg St. Germain, was impossible. 
The neighborhood Ruth had made her home 
in was pungent with many odors. She saw 
nothing interesting in the impasse with the 
low, red brick ateliers on each side. The big 
north window was a horror to her, for the 
light through it was merciless. She had in- 
spected Ruth’s kitchen behind a big screen, 
and the thought of her daughter boiling eggs 
and making coffee on the smelly little stove 
made her unhappy. To see Ruth in a brown 
linen blouse with paint-marks on the sleeve, her 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


throat bared for comfort, was like seeing a 
stranger. She drove home from the inspec- 
tion dissatisfied, and said to herself : 

“ She’s not a bit like me. She’s her father 
all over. How much she looks like him since 
her face has grown thin! Her eyes to-day 
were so like his when he used to come home 
tired out from that awful factory. Poor 
Tony! ” 

Ruth worked hard. She had been in her 
new quarters more than a week, and, though 
she had risen early to get the light on her 
canvas and stayed at it till dusk, only eating a 
roll with a leaf of lettuce in it for her 
dejeuner, the work was not progressing. She 
was feverishly anxious to finish the painting 
and sell it, thereby earning her first money. 
Then she would be free to seek orders for il- 
lustrations, and her real existence as a bread- 
winner begin. Her very eagerness acted as a 
weight that delayed her. Her work of one 
day was obliterated the next. 

On a humid morning she was sitting before 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


the canvas. Her palette was smeared with 
dabs of fresh paint, but her brush was idle. 
There was one effect she could not get. The 
picture was a bit of still life, showing the 
kitchen of a Normandy farmhouse. There 
was to be firelight on the uneven hearth, and 
the sunlight of very early morning was to 
creep in a cold, radiant band over the rough 
threshold. The effect of these mixed lights 
was to make the whole meaning of the paint- 
ing. She had done successful work on the yel- 
low flare from the burning branches which 
brought out the homely minutise of the smoke- 
stained walls, the dried herbs on the rafters, 
and cobwebs over the chimney-piece, but the 
sunlight kept cheating her. She could not 
make it real. It was hard, without limpid- 
ity. It did not bring to mind the dew still 
undried on the fields outside, the lark singing, 
the still sleepy peasant making ready for his 
work. 

She wiped out what she had done on the 
sunlight for the fifth time, and with complete 
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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


languor sat back. Inspiration had deserted 
her. Perhaps she had better wait. After all, 
a working mood was as impossible to summon 
at will as happiness. One could not force truth 
from a brain that seemed as dry as a sucked 
orange. She sat this way, staring from the 
canvas to the permeating mist which had be- 
gun to sift through the heated air. Her tem- 
ples throbbed. For the moment independence 
in the Rue Monsieur seemed a sorry posses- 
sion. 

She then faced frankly a deep-laid, subtle 
need which had matured within her heart in an 
unobtrusive way, as the little green things 
push themselves into gentle bud under the 
snow. She wanted to see Tom. She missed 
him sorely. The room seemed aching for the 
warmth of his big, blithe presence. With a 
shadowy remorse and wistfulness she thought 
of his love for her; how he had bared his heart, 
unashamed, with a pagan candor and sim- 
plicity, for her to smile at. She had under- 
valued him because he had been the accepted, 
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usual thing in her life — so usual, too, the days 
of work together in the country; the dinners 
in dreamy gardens by the river, their canvases 
beside them; the crystalline talks about art, 
while in the pauses, passionate love, glorious 
and natural as the summer day, made silent 
appeal from Tom’s eyes. Those days seemed 
far away now. He was not even in Paris, and 
if he were, it was likely she would not have 
roused herself out of this spiritual anesthesia 
to send for him. 

Ten minutes later she was walking rapidly 
in the soft rain without destination. She wore 
a mackintosh and sailor hat and carried no 
umbrella. The mist stung her lifted face and 
made her cheeks faintly pink. She was think- 
ing of her picture, and her mind saw the flare 
of cold, early sunlight as she longed to have 
it. Several times she was on the point of turn- 
ing back and trying again, but the walking, 
which made her glow, kept her magnetically 
on her way. She had no idea where she was 
till a church-bell began what seemed a lisping 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


knell, and she was amazed to find herself 
standing in the Place de Parvis de Notre 
Dame. When she crossed to the church and 
passed under the arched doorway her heart 
was very bitter. The last time she stood there 
Lawrence Brundage had been with her. He 
had watched her praying for her father; he 
had seen her tears for him. 

The vast place was almost empty. About 
a dozen people were at the distant altar, and 
she caught the glimmer of a baby’s white 
coffin. In the heaviest shadow near the door 
she sat down and closed her eyes; even her 
fingers relaxed. After resting so for a little 
while, she looked up. A few stragglers were 
pacing up the aisle toward her, and, though 
he was still far off, she recognized Lawrence 
among them. He was walking slowly, his 
head bent. She had opportunity to leave with- 
out his seeing her, but something chained her 
there, and kept her gaze with compelling at- 
traction upon him. Their eyes met. The 
Gravity of his face was swept away by a sav- 
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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


age joy. She stood up, leaning upon a chair 
as he hurried to her. 

“Ruth!” he said softly, but with intense 
prayer and longing. 

“ Well? ” 

“Oh, Ruth, how I’ve tried to find you!” 
He laid his hand on hers and tried to force 
her fingers into his clasp. “ Every day I’ve 
come here hoping to meet you. I’d have 
searched for you till death. Did you think I 
could give you up without a struggle? ” 

“ No,” she said impassively. “ That’s why 
I hid from you.” 

“ Your mother parted us. Everything has 
been sent back, even my letters unopened. 
Oh, Ruth, was this fair? But I felt if I could 
once stand face to face with you it would be 
different. I had a right to see you.” 

“ What right? ” 

“ The right that love gives.” 

Her hand had crept from beneath his. 

“ You and I can have nothing to say to each 
other. Everything is changed.” 

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TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


“Everything but two facts, Ruth: That I 
love you and you love me, and, thank God, 
they make a tie you can’t break. You love 
me, Ruth. You have suffered, too, and I see 
it in your face.” 

Her heart lightened. She felt gloriously 
free. She had been so afraid to test herself. 
Women had obstinately, miserably continued 
to love men they could not respect, afflicted by 
passion as if it were a disease. She might 
have been like that. But she knew now that 
this man was not he whose power she had first 
felt when they stood in this place before, and 
nothing could give him back that lost, radiant 
personality. Philosophy and resignation had 
followed the irremediable through the same 
door. 

“ Let’s go where we can talk,” he went on 
with passionate determination. “ Drive with 

me to Foyot’s, and over breakfast we can ” 

“ No.” 

“ Then where? ” 

She shook her head wearily. 

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f TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


“You don’t understand, then, at all? ” and 
she sighed as one might who has an impersonal 
but unpleasant duty to perform. “ This place 
will do quite well for all we have to say.” She 
moved back a little farther, and they had the 
quiet corner to themselves. 

“ Your silence has been maddening,” he 
burst out. “ It has been worse than if you had 
flayed me with words. In London I was like 
one damned.” 

“ I thought silence the only decent thing.” 

“ You’ve been so cruel,” he went on, ignor- 
ing the words. “ Even on that last day, after 
my letter to you, you wouldn’t give me a sign 
of mercy.” 

“You mean by coming out on the bal- 
cony? ” Ruth smiled. “ I had to be excused. 
You see, I was very engrossed just then in 
reading the love-letters you wrote to my 
mother twelve years ago.” 

She saw him quiver as if touched by a lash. 

“ She showed you those! ” he muttered. 

“ I’ve now a very thorough acquaintance 
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with your methods. You have a good grip on 
strong English. You can write a love-letter 
that any woman might believe. I must com- 
pliment you.” 

For the first time he doubted his ultimate 
power to win her back. Her face was serene 
and slightly insolent, her eyes had the cold 
shine of stars. It was hard to believe that 
this stranger was the girl that had kissed him 
in the fragrance and darkness of the countess’s 
garden. He was like a worshiper tearing his 
heart open to stone. 

“ You, who have said you loved me, can 
mock me? ” he stammered. 

She gave a slight laugh. 

“ I told you everything was changed. Cer- 
tain interesting facts about you have altered 
all that. I don’t love you in the least.” 

“ Oh, indeed!” he said, his face whitening. 
“ Yet I never pretended to virtues beyond 
me. You knew I regretted some things in 
my past life. You said you could forgive my 
sins.” 


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Ruth settled herself more comfortably in 
the comer, her foot on a kneeling-stool. Her 
glance became scorching. 

“ Sins — yes, I said so — not crimes.” 

“ I don’t understand you.” 

“ You will.” Her next words came slowly, 
a reverence in them which had nothing to do 
with him. “You killed my father. Oh, I 
know you didn’t use a cudgel or fire a shot, 
but you killed him.” 

The passage of the child’s funeral up the 
middle aisle checked his reply. She watched 
the weeping procession after the little coffin, 
tears gathering in her eyes. When the church 
was quiet again, except for the sad-tongued 
bell, she said, as if speaking to herself : 

“I’ve often dreamed of his dead face. 
That awesome look! I know now it was the 
amazement of his broken heart through his 
closed eyes, that his friend could have stolen 
the one precious thing in his poor life. I’m 
sure that look was on Christ’s face when Peter 
denied him.” 


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Those were her thoughts of him. Her look 
turned him cold and dumb. 

“If you felt any sorrow at his death it was 
only the fluttering of your nerves. You for- 
got — you gaily forgot. Why, from the very 
beginning, what were you? You had written 
those letters to my mother, meaning to have 
her ruin her life for you, burn her bridges be- 
hind her publicly, and, if a divorce had fol- 
lowed, you meant to discard her.” 

“As God hears ” 

“ Leave God out of this, please,” she 
sneered. “ It was not your avowed, clear in- 
tention, because men of your sort never look 
into their souls. But the idea of marrying her 
was never in your thoughts. Your discarding 
her could only have been a matter of time. 
This was to depend on just how soon she began 
to bore you. At the best, you’d have made her 
a soiled, superfluous toy. So you were a 
scoundrel from the very first.” 

“ You shall not call me that! ” he muttered, 
falling back from her. 

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“ But you were, you know,” Ruth smiled 
in intolerable scorn. “If after my father’s 
death you had done the only clean and merci- 
ful thing, it wouldn’t be in my power to say 
this to you now. But marriage to my mother 
was not in your prospectus — not even then! 
As she expected this from you, she became a 
nuisance. You jilted her brutally, but you 
made the odious act easy for yourself by giv- 
ing her money, which she was spiritless enough 
in her desperation to take.” Her voice trem- 
bled here. “ I’d rather have been flogged 
every day of my life than have used a sou of 
it if I had known. But I’ll pay back what 
was spent on my support. Remember, I’ll 
make that the purpose of my life.” 

“ Have you finished? ” he asked in cold 
wrath. 

“ Not yet. And you dared to try to marry 
me! ” she said, her eyes flaming. “ If I could 
forgive all the rest, the thought of that would 
make me loathe you. Now will you please 
go?” 


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TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


He who knew women so well saw the 
hopelessness of attempting to make her sub- 
tract a word from her sentence. She was not 
the woman who loved him, or who had loved 
him. She was his judge. Dismissal and final- 
ity were in her full gaze. 

“ Good-by, then,” he said, and turned away, 
but stopped to look at her again with bitter 
triumph. “ Right or wrong, I’m glad you 
loved me. That first kiss in the countess’s gar- 
den,” he said in a slow, vibrating whisper, 
“ will be my sweetest memory.” 

“And my regret,” she answered, with an 
accent of intolerable humiliation. 

She did not look up until the sound of his 
unwilling steps upon the marble had ceased. 

In a little while Ruth was back in the studio. 
She looked at her pale face in the mirror as 
she took off her hat, and smiled defiantly. 
She ought to look happy, she ought to feel 
happy. She had rung down the curtain on 
Lawrence Brundage and need hide from him 
no more. That the daughter of Anthony Da- 
317 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 

kon had told him the cold truth about himself 
perhaps for the first time in his life, was the 
perfection of justice. This ought to make her 
glad. She sat down and clasped her cold 
hands together, staring at the wall, but look- 
ing into her heart. Everything she had said 
had been true; she would say it all again to 
him; she despised him. In all probability she 
would never see him again. Her freedom was 
complete. Forgetfulness of it all would come 
by degrees. Her life with its beautiful ab- 
sorbing work stretched before her. She ought 
to be very glad. 

But Ruth was learning what it meant to be 
a woman. Love lay dead within her conscious- 
ness, but the body had not yet been put out 
of sight. Her heart ached with a new loneli- 
ness. The silent studio with the increasing 
rain pattering like a fall of steel beads on the 
panes seemed the home of a silent, despairing 
presence. Ruth felt it brood over her. She 
drooped under it, her eyes growing empty 
of light, lassitude weighing upon her. The 
318 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


late afternoon found her in the same mood. 
Painting was out of the question. She tried 
to read, but the book slipped from her slack 
fingers. She tried to write, but found her- 
self sitting with her head on her hand, while 
the pen trailed meaningless curves, dots, and 
angles over the paper. The thought of the 
night that would soon shut her in in a more 
complete silence became suddenly unbearable, 
and she was roused to a desire to dress and go 
to her mother’s for dinner. But even after 
she decided to do this shie still drooped in a 
deep chair, cold, sluggish, weighed down by 
an unresisted melancholy. Strength to obey 
her will seemed to have dripped from her inert 
fingers, and so the night passed. 


319 


CHAPTER XXV 


Almost a fortnight later, at two o’clock on 
a very wet day, Tom came home. He swung 
into the atelier in a very businesslike way, fol- 
lowed by the concierge bearing his trunk with 
many labels. 

“So you’re back, and Irish weather with 
you,” said Andy, half turning from the easel 
where he was smoking and mixing some paints. 
“Not a word from you since you left,” he 
exclaimed indignantly. “ You’re a nice pal! ” 
“ You didn’t want letters of travel, and 
there was nothing else to talk about,” said 
Tom, proceeding to make himself comfort- 
able with his pipe. “ But maybe you did. 
I’ll begin: I liked Dublin. It’s as dirty as 
London and as dull, but the people are 
bully; blue eyes everywhere; long eyelashes 
320 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 

at every turn; awfully pretty girls; a light- 
hearted, shiftless nation; nothing better than 
the cricket at Trinity to be seen anywhere; 
love jaunting-cars; hate Irish cooking, much 
sense and no seasoning; Irishwomen ride like 
the devil; good figures; rains a good deal; 
much tweed on Sackville Street; beautiful 
park, Phoenix ” 

“ Say, look here, this isn’t a Cook’s tour,” 
Andy began plaintively. 

“Next, Killarney,” Tom went on; “won- 
derful ruin, Muckross Abbey; Gap of Dunloe 
on horseback; peasant women, shawls over 
head; violet eyes, wretchedly poor, laugh a 
lot ” 

“ Oh, shut up ! ” yelled Andy, and kicked his 
chair over in getting up. “ Let me talk,” he 
said, as Tom folded his arms and looked at him 
in a purposely vacant way. “ Things have 
been happening here,” he announced with a 
heavy importance, and lifted himself back- 
ward on his palms to a seat on a table, where 
he swung his legs and looked at Tom with 
321 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 

relish. “Yes, son, things have been hap- 
pening.” 

“ To you? ” 

Andy made a large gesture of over-empha- 
sized humility. 

“ What am I? " 

There was a heavy pause, and Andy saw 
the breathless expression, the widening of eye 
that he wanted, pass over Tom’s face as he 
grew very pale and folded his arms tighter. 

“ It’s about Ruth, isn’t it? ” 

Andy nodded. 

“ What? ” 

He asked the last word as a matter of form. 
He thought he could almost utter the exact 
phrases in which Andy was to tell him of 
Ruth’s sudden and romantic marriage to Law- 
rence Brundage. During the past weeks, as 
he had rowed dreamily over the silver lakes 
of Ireland, and been driven in a lilting car 
through the land where waterfalls whispered 
and a mist like incense trembled over the green 
fields, he had hardened himself to hearing, on 
322 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


his return to Paris, news of Ruth’s coming 1 
marriage. He could have received it with 
more courage and philosophy than when he 
had gone away, so much he had conquered 
himself. But to face the fact that the Ruth 
he knew was absolutely gone, and the wife of 
another man lived in her stead, had shaken 
him. 

“ There’s been a smash-up in the Avenue 
Montaigne,” said Andy, sucking on his pipe 
jovially. 

“A quarrel? ” Tom asked, conscious of re- 
lief as the tightness around his heart snapped. 

“No one knows anything about anything. 
That’s the devil of it ! At first Ruth told Babe 
the apartment was to be rented, that her 
mother had lost all her money — staggerer 
number one. Then Mrs. Dakon married old 
Gunning offhand, and they kept the apart- 
ment — staggerer number two. All this time 
Ruth looked awful, as if she had consumption 
— just like Delphine Tacot,” and Andy sucked 
his round cheeks in to illustrate disease. “ She 


323 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


left the studio without saying good-by, took 
her picture away one Saturday, and — there 
you are.” 

“ Where is she? ” shot from Tom’s lips. 

4 4 Where? ” shrugged Andy. 44 That’s just 
it. Nobody knows — staggerer number three.” 

Andy enjoyed to the full the blank gaze 
leveled at him, as the pipe, its embers gray, 
hung from Tom’s lips. 

44 Doesn’t Babe know? ” 

44 Nopey. Ruth sent her a note saying she’d 
give her address soon, but for the present she 
didn’t want to see any one.” Andy drew him- 
self up. 44 1 didn’t think it of Ruth, but I 
believe it’s beastly pride — snobbish, I call it. 
What if she has to get down to real work, and 
live in some hole over here? It’s no more than 
lots of us have to do; as I’ve done and will 
have to do again when this peach of an ar- 
rangement here with you is over, if you really 
go back to New York. Too proud to let her 
stepfather support her — that’s all right,” 
Andy went on, lost in his own eloquence; 44 but 
324 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 

why the dickens she should go and bury her- 
self as if she were hiding from some one — 
Where are you off to? " 

He blurted out the question in amazement. 
Tom had stood up, had knocked the ashes from 
his pipe, and was putting on his coat and hat. 

4 4 Where are you going? ” 

44 Out,” said Tom absently, taking up his 
umbrella. 

44 Glad you told me,” snorted Andy. 
44 Why, do you know I thought you were get- 
ting ready for bed.” 

Tom had reached the door. 44 Don't wait 
dinner for me,” he said, and the sound of his 
running feet on the stone stairs followed. 

44 Gabriel after his Evangeline,” Andy 
thought as he went to the window and watched 
Tom cross to the gardens, and then he re- 
flected with much satisfaction that he was glad 
no girl living could get him out on a wild- 
goose chase on such a day. 

It was indeed wildly wet, a hurricane almost, 
most unseemly weather for summer. Tom 
325 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


astonished Mrs. Dakon by appearing an hour 
later in the Avenue Montaigne. After some 
hasty congratulations on her marriage, to 
which she scarcely listened, they talked for 
twenty minutes, or rather Tom pleaded and 
she shrugged, and in conclusion she gave him 
Ruth’s address. 

“Don’t ask me to explain anything,” she 
said helplessly, holding out the smallest of 
slippers with the largest of buckles to the wood 
blaze sputtering on the hearth. “ Most of all, 
don’t ask me to explain Ruth. She’s beyond 
me. Why that girl should choose to live in 
such a place — Well, it’s just this — she’s her 
father, root and branch. Not a bit like me,” 
said Mrs. Dakon proudly; “ not a bit. I can’t 
help loving her, of course, but,” and she smiled 
with a sweet pity for Ruth, “ we are absolutely 
unlike.” 

After four o’clock, and while the beat of 
the rain was still a monotone Ruth heard some 
one come up the ladder -like stairway, in the im- 
passe, which led to her door. When she an- 
326 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 

swered the knock, she saw Tom against the 
background of driving torrents and wet, drab 
houses, a cascade pouring from his umbrella. 
The life quickened through her numb body. 
The dark day, the storm that had filled her 
quiet place with mournful and mysterious 
creaking and sighings, had brought her loneli- 
ness to a desolate apex. She wanted to 
tell him that she had been aching to see him. 
She could have flung her arms around him. 
But she gave no hint of this, other than 
a bright smile and the trembling of her 
lashes, which always showed when she was 
pleased. 

“ I wouldn’t have tried to find you,” Tom 
said with a youthful, ponderous formality 
while placing his wet umbrella carefully on the 
hearth, “if I hadn’t been going away. I’d 
have waited a little longer until you wanted 
people to come.” His eyes were more like a 
grieved dog’s than ever, though he tried to 
speak in a matter-of-fact way; “I simply 
forced your mother to give me your address. 
327 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


As long as it was to say good-by I felt you 
wouldn’t think me cheeky. So I came.” 

“ You’re going away? ” Ruth sat down 
opposite him. She was not smiling now. “To 
America, I suppose? ” 

Tom choked down something. Now that he 
saw her — the dear, green eyes, the dimple wa- 
vering in her cheek, the little clasped hands — 
it was hard to be there as a brother might have 
been with good-by hovering near. 

“ To America,” he said. “ But I didn’t 
come to say only that. I’ll put off going if 
I can help you. I don’t know what’s happened 
that you’re here like this, and perhaps you’d 
rather not tell me. But one thing I do want 
to know: Can’t I do anything for you ? Ruth? 
You see,” said Tom earnestly, setting his teeth 
and smiling, “ you mustn’t think I’m going to 
butt in with a lot of rhetoric about my disap- 
pointment. That’s all done with. But I’m 
ready to protect you. Isn’t there some busi- 
ness matter I can attend to, Ruth? ” 

“ No, Tom.” 


328 


TIME, THE COMEDIAN 


Any one’s head you want punched? ” 

No, indeed,” she said, with a sighing little 
laugh. 

“ I feel so strong. I’m just crazy to help 
you,” said Tom wistfully. “ There must be 
lots of things a fellow like me could do for 
a girl like you.” 

Ruth shook her head slowly. He saw a 
little sigh tremble through her. 

“ Nothing,” she said; and added: “ So you 
are going to America.” She moved a book on 
the table and did not look at him. “ You’re 
not coming back — ever? ” 

“ I may, sometime, as a visitor,” he said, 
with a flagrant counterfeit of a cheerful smile. 
“ But I’m leaving the studio. In fact, I’m not 
going to be an artist.” 

“ Why should you, unless your talent makes 
any other life impossible? ” 

“Do you think I have talent — the real thing 
— Ruth? ” he asked, with an accent of curi- 
osity. 

“ Great talent,” she said earnestly. “ More 
329 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


than that, I don’t believe you can help being a 
painter. You were born for it.” 

His eyes grew warm at the words. 

“ I feel that way sometimes. But — I had 
to leave here — and anyway I thought I’d try 
something else. My cousin Leslie wants me 
to buy a seat on the Stock Exchange in New 
York. It’s an exciting life and that’s what I 
want.” 

Ruth’s eyebrows twitched. “You’ll never 
be a money-maker, Tom,” she said with con- 
viction; “ never. When you should be buying 
or selling stocks you’ll be watching the fren- 
zied faces of the others and thinking how well 
this or that one would paint.” 

“ Well,” he said desperately, “ I’ll have a 
shy at it, anyway. I can’t stay here.” 

“ Are you homesick, then? ” 

“ You know why I’m going,” he said flatly, 
without looking at her. “ Don’t be afraid. 
I’m not going to make a nuisance of myself. 
I came to see if I could help you in any way, 
and then to say good-by, that’s all.” He 
330 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


turned his stricken eyes to hers and repeated 
vigorously: “ That’s all, Ruth.” 

She did not answer, but still thoughtfully 
moved the book on the table. 

“ I’ll go now,” Tom said abruptly. 

Her eyes followed him as he went to the 
mantel for his umbrella. With his rumpled, 
fair hair, troubled eyes, the rain-drops glitter- 
ing on his huge shoulders, he reminded her of 
a big, trusty retriever driven into the wet. 

“ I hope you’ll be very happy,” she mur- 
mured. 

“ Thank you.” He stood before her help- 
lessly: “ I sha’n’t see you again.” 

“When do you go?” she asked in a very 
small voice. 

“ Three days. From Cherbourg,” were the 
words; and the tone was: “ Good-by, darling, 
darling. You can’t love me, but my heart is 
breaking for you, and I’m so near telling 
you all about it again and making an awful 
ass of myself I’d better get out of this in a 
hurry.” 


22 


331 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 

He took her hand and crushed it. She stood 
up and looked at him. 

“ Good-by,” said Tom, his voice zigzag. 

Ruth’s other hand flew to his shoulder, crept 
from that to his collar, and then to his cheek, 
where the blood began to tingle while his 
heart-beats became like hammer-strokes. The 
little hand crept on until it lay against his lips. 

“ Don’t go,” she said in a pleading whisper, 
and pressed her face to his wet, fuzzy sleeve. 

The umbrella fell, and his arms were around 
her in wild longing. 

“ But — Brundage ” 

“ Don’t ask me about it. Some time you 
shall know.” She clung to him and sobbed 
without restraint. He heard her stifled words 
only faintly. “ Tom, you see the picture over 
there. I can’t get the sunlight in it. It won’t 
come in for me. I’ve tried day after day; 
it won’t come in. It’s like my life, Tom. 
There’s no sunlight in it now. Help me to 
find it.” 

“ But can I, Ruth? ” 

332 


TIME , THE COMEDIAN 


She placed both her hands tenderly on his 
face, and looked into his eyes, into his soul, a 
look that was terrible in its longing and 
demand. 

“ Yes, you can. You are young, you are 
honest, and your heart is clean.” 

Their fresh, childish mouths met, and tears 
of agonizing joy stood in Tom’s brown eyes. 

“ I don’t love you now,” Ruth murmured, 
“ quite as you want me to, dear. I’m so sore, 
Tom. But, oh, how I’m going to love you 
by and by! ” 


(i) 


THE END 


333 












WORKS OF ROBERT W. CHAMBERS. 


IOLE 

Colored inlay on the cover, decorative borders, head- 
pieces, thumb-nail sketches, and tail-pieces. Frontispiece 
and three full-page illustrations. i2mo. . Ornamental 
Cloth, $1.25. 

Does anybody remember the opera of The Inca, and that heart-breaking 
episode where the Court Undertaker, in a morbid desire to increase his pro- 
fessional skill, deliberately accomplishes the destruction of his middle-aged 
relatives in order to inter them for the sake of practice ? 

If I recollect, his dismal confession runs something like this : 

“It was in bleak November 
When I slew them, I remember, 

As I caught them unawares 
Drinking tea in rocking-chairs. ” 

And so he talked them to death, the subject being “What Really Is Art?” 
Afterward he was sorry — 

“ The squeak of a door, 

The creak of a floor, 

My horrors and fears enhance ; 

And I wake with a scream 
As I hear in my dream 
The shrieks of my maiden aunts ! ” 

Now it is a very dreadful thing to suggest that those highly respectable 
pseudo-spinsters, the Sister Arts, supposedly cozily immune in their polyga- 
mous chastity (for every suitor for favor is popularly expected to be wedded to 
his particular art) — I repeat, it is very dreadful to suggest that these impeccable 
old ladies are in danger of being talked to death. 

But the talkers are talking and Art Nouveau rockers are rocking, and the 
trousers of the prophet are patched with stained glass, and it is a day of dinki- 
ness and of thumbs. 

Let us find comfort in the ancient proverb : “ Art talked to death shall rise 
again.” Let us also recollect that “Dinky is as dinky does;” that “All is 
not Shaw that Bernards ; ” that “ Better Yeates than Clever ; ” that words are 
so inexpensive that there is no moral crime in robbing Henry to pay James. 

Firmly believing all this, abjuring all atom-pickers, slab furniture, and 
woodchuck literature — save only the immortal verse : 

“ And there the wooden-chuck doth tread ; 

While from the oak trees’ tops 
The red, red squirrel on the head 
The frequent acorn drops.” 

Abjuring, as I say, dinkiness in all its forms, we may still hope that those 
cleanly and respectable spinsters, the Sister Arts, will continue throughout the 
ages, rocking and drinking tea unterrified by the million-tongued clamor in 
the back yard and below stairs, where thumb and forefinger continue the 
question demanded by intellectual exhaustion : 

“ L’arr 1 Kesker say l’arr ? ” 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK. 


WHERE LOVE CONQUERS. 


The Reckoning. 

By Robert W. Chambers. 

The author’s intention is to treat, in a series of four or five 
romances, that part of the war for independence which particularly- 
affected the great landed families of northern New York, the 
Johnsons, represented by Sir William, Sir John, Guy Johnson, and 
Colonel Claus ; the notorious Butlers, father and son, the Schuylers, 
Van Rensselaers, and others. 

The first romance of the series, Cardigan, was followed by the 
second, The Maid-at-Arms. The third, in order, is not completed. 
The fourth is the present volume. 

As Cardigan pretended to portray life on the baronial estate of 
Sir William Johnson, the first uneasiness concerning the coming 
trouble, the first discordant note struck in the harmonious councils 
of the Long House, so, in The Maid-at-Arms, which followed in 
order, the author attempted to paint a patroon family disturbed by 
the approaching rumble of battle. That romance dealt with the 
first serious split in the Iroquois Confederacy ; it showed the Long 
House shattered though not fallen; the demoralization and final 
flight of the great landed families who remained loyal to the Britisl 
Crown; and it struck the key-note to the future attitude of the 
Iroquois toward the patriots of the frontier — revenge for their 
losses at the battle of Oriskany — and ended with the march of the 
militia and continental troops on Saratoga. 

The third romance, as yet incomplete and unpublished, deals 
with the war-path and those who followed it lea by the landed 
gentry of Tryon County; and ends with the first solid blow de- 
livered at the Long House, and the terrible punishment of the 
Great Confederacy. 

The present romance, the fourth in chronological order, picks 
up the thread at that point. 

The author is not conscious of having taken any liberties with 
history in preparing a framework of facts for a mantle of romance. 

Robert W. Chambers. 

New York, May 26 , igof . 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK. 


WIT, SPARKLING, SCINTILLATING WIT, 
IS THE ESSENCE OF 


Kate of Kate Hall, 

By Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler, 

whose reputation was made by her first book, 
“ Concerning Isabel Carnaby,” and enhanced by her 
last success, “ Place and Power.” 

“ In ‘ Kate of Kate Hall,’ by Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler, the ques- 
tion of imminent concern is the marriage of super-dainty, peppery- 
tempered Lady Katherine Clare, whose wealthy godmother, erstwhile 
deceased, has left her a vast fortune, on condition that she shall be 
wedded within six calendar months from date of the testator’s death. 

“An easy matter, it would seem, for bonny Kate, notwithstanding 
her aptness at sharp repartee, is a morsel fit for the gods. 

“ The accepted suitor appears in due time ; but comes to grief at the 
last moment in a quarrel with Lady Kate over a kiss bestowed by her 
upon her godmother’s former man of affairs and secretary. This inci- 
dent she haughtily refuses to explain. Moreover, she shatters the bond 
of engagement, although but three weeks remain of the fatal six months. 
She would rather break stones on the road all day and sleep in a 
' auper’s grave all night, than marry a man who, while professing to love 
t, would listen to mean and malicious gossips picked up by tell-tales 

the servants’ hall. 

“ So the great estate is likely to be lost to Kate and her debt-ridden 
.her, Lord Claverley. How it is conserved at last, and gloomy appre- 
msion chased away by dazzling visions of material splendor — that is 
e author’s well-kept secret, not to be shared here with a careless and 
indolent public.” — Philadelphia North American. 

“ The long-standing reproach that women are seldom fhumorists 
seems in a fair way of passing out of existence. Several contemporary 
feminine writers have at least sufficient sense of humor to produce char- 
acters as deliciously humorous as delightful. Of such order is the 
Countess Claverley, made whimsically real and lovable in the recent 
book by Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler and A. L. Felkin, ‘Kate of Kate 
Hall.’ ” — Chicago Record- Her aid. 

“ ‘ Kate of Kate Hall ’ is a novel in which Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler 
displays her brilliant abilities at their best. The story is well constructed, 
tht; plot develops beautifully, the incidents are varied and brisk, and the 
dialogue is deliciously clever.” — Rochester Democrat and Chronicle. 


J)\ APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK. 


“A beautiful romance of the days of Robert Bums/* 


Nancy Stair. 

A Novel. By Elinor Macartney Lane, author 
of “Mills of God.” Illustrated. i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 

“ With very much the grace and charm of Robert Louis 
Stevenson, the author of ‘The Life of Nancy Stair* com- 
bines unusual gifts of narrative, characterization, color, and 
humor. She has also delicacy, dramatic quality, and that 
rare gift — historic imagination. 

“ * The Life of Nancy Stair * is interesting from the first 
sentence to the last; the characters are vital and a™* * lcrk 
most entertaining company; the denouement une: 
and picturesque and cleverly led up to from one f 
earliest chapters; the story moves swiftly and wi 
hitch. Robert Burns is neither idealized nor caric re 
Sandy, Jock, Pitcairn, Danvers Carmichael, and th I 
of Borthewicke are admirably relieved against eacl 
and Nancy herself as irresistible as she is natural, 
sure, she is a wonderful child, but then she man 
make you believe she was a real one. Indeed, rea] y 
naturalness are two of the charms of a story th; 
reaches the heart and engages the mind, and whi 
scarcely fail to make for itself a large audience. . g- 
deal of delightful talk and interesting incidents are 1 ed 
the development of the story. Whoever reads it wil 
everybody he knows to read it ; and those who do r 
for its literary quality cannot escape the interest of 
6tory full of incident and atmosphere.** 

M Powerfully and attractively written/* — Pittsburg Post . 

** A story best described with the word * charming/ ** 

— Washing h 

t>. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW ^ 


332 92 
























































































































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